Friends Check for Bullet Wounds
by Ezra Cross
Summary: utter, shameless, clint injury. It's been a couple months since New York changed everyone. Bruce tracks Clint down in his room one night and finds the archer in dire straights. terrified to move with a ten inch steak knife stuck in his chest, what will they do to save him? And what sort of pain has Clint been hiding beneath the physical?Team bonding, Clint!whump, Steve/Thor revenge
1. Chapter 1

because apparently i have too much free time on my hands while working on "I Can Hear the Drums"

there is no overwhelming theme here, guys, just endless Clint whump for my own sad pleasure.

Oh, this is another surprise for my editors, so please forgive the grammar. it's my fault, not theirs:)

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**Friends Check for Bullet Wounds**

Bruce Banner wasn't sure what exactly possessed him this particular night to make the multi-floor journey down to Barton's apartment when the archer always made it clear "family time" was not his sort of thing. Pepper insisted. Sometimes that was all Bruce required to set his mind on a task, especially given his hostess had bent over backwards all day to not only run the company Tony had so graciously thrown in her lap, but also make family night a moment to remember. Granted, the actual fantasy holiday happened four nights prior. Pepper set out to get the team together with a post-move into Stark/Avenger's Tower party. Every one of the Avengers team had been absent while Tony and she enjoyed a private dinner together. Clint and Natasha found themselves in parts unknown. Steve had to report down to the SHIELD Triskelian and found himself trapped in D.C. for the last two weeks doing odd jobs all over the country. As for Bruce, he enjoyed a brief reconnect with an old colleague who flew into town for a business conference. Thor did his partying on Asgard before returning to the Tower the prior afternoon.

With the nest feeling empty, Pepper set out to fill the void. The best way to do it, was to simply try again. Hearing the team was to be in town again that evening, Pepper arranged the entire event a second time around on even shorter notice. Natasha was supposed to be back, but delayed flights kept her trapped in Atlanta. As for Barton . . .

Bruce strolled up the apartment corridor once the elevator pulled to a stop and sprung open. Clint didn't like crowds. He didn't like touchy-feely-get-togethers either. He was fine with mission briefs so long as they were that. Brief. Any other interactions Bruce managed with the reclusive archer happened either as the Hulk or around the upstairs bar. It had been a few months since the battle of New York decimated the team, and almost two since Clint took residence in the Tower at Tony's hearty insistence. Bruce never expected being buddy-buddy with any of the Avengers. After moving everyone under one roof, though, he at least anticipated seeing Barton more often. Stopping outside the agent's door, Bruce sighed.

Clint had pinned three targets to the outside, as if reminding himself which door belong to him. He lived across the hall from Steve and Natasha was practically his neighbor at just a door down on the same side. Bruce considered residing on the same floor but given his propensity for Hulking out, he decided to stay beneath the lab for now, in a vibranium lined suite that, thus far, proved effective enough to keep him contained.

He lifted a hand and rapt his knuckles on the door frame. "Clint? I saw that you're finally back. Is it all right if I come in?" Bruce asked through the entry. He didn't know the archer enough to invade his private space just yet. They were still in the feeling out stage that occurs prior to either friendship or complete disregard for one another's existence. JARVIS was the only one in the know when it came to Barton's comings and goings. The minute he reported Barton had come back that morning, Pepper was determined to get him to dinner. Now, half an hour in and Clint a no-show, it was between Steve, Bruce, Thor, Tony, or Pepper to retrieve him. Bruce just happened to pick the short straw.

"JARVIS, are you sure Clint's inside?" Bruce confided with the empty air. Tony's personalized butler system made a few tones as it considered the Tower's security footage.

"Agent Barton arrived at 9:34am and entered his quarters. He has not left." The A.I. reported.

"You wanna give talking to him another go?" Bruce asked.

"As I have reported, Agent Barton felt it necessary to deactivate my sensors in his quarters."

Bruce nodded to himself. Somehow he hoped in the last twenty minutes that changed. Clint was a spy. He didn't like being spied on, even if it was a helpful artificial intelligence. Natasha and he both set out to deactivate their rooms and go off the grid almost the instant Tony asked them to move in. The battle of New York left them somewhat homeless. Barton's one apartment in the Lower East Side took a direct hit and whatever he used to own, he did no longer. The SHIELD squints cleared him for active service after Loki's mental meltdown, but that did little to improve his overall acceptance with the remaining SHIELD crew. The likelihood of him ever being allowed to keep a room on the Helicarrier again was nil. Tony must have found him in a good state of mind when he asked Barton to move in, because for some reason the guy agreed to it.

Banner knocked a second time. "Clint?" He called in a little louder. "Hey, look, I know you don't like being bothered, but—" Bruce leaned on the door and inexplicably, it popped open. He stopped, blinked at the cracked entry way and looked left and right up the hall as if this was some magical test that he was about to fail. He wondered if Clint might have opened it himself, and just left the entry hanging for him to come in if he wanted. He slipped forward carefully and edged just inside.

"Clint?" he asked with trepidation.

The room was dark. Bruce had actually never been into the spy's place since the walls went up. Barton furnished the room himself with an old Ikea catalogue he found in an office downstairs and the internet. Tony bank rolled, only because he wouldn't have it any other way, but thinking on it again, Bruce realized even Iron Man hadn't stepped foot inside. Uncharted spy bedroom. This might get dangerous.

The room was shrouded in darkness. Only the odd ray of reflected light from the neighboring sky scrapers attempted with all their might to reach inside. Clint's floor was one of the tallest on the Tower, and the Tower itself was the tallest building in New York. Nothing around it even came close.

"Clint?" Bruce asked again, feeling along the immediate wall for a light switch. He failed to find one right off, meaning it was most likely on the hinge side of the door. Bruce carefully leaned inside, dragging one foot forward as if it may catch a trip wire.

"Did the door open?" a faint voice asked.

Bruce straightened up. At least there was a sign of life. "Sorry, yeah. I guess it didn't catch the lock when you came back. I don't mean to intrude."

"Actually, it's the first time I'm happy someone just showed up to check on me."

With that being the only invitation Bruce felt he'd ever receive, he swung the door open a little wider and allowed the hall light to illuminate a little of Clint's room. The style was different than Banner's apartment. Here a small mudroom came first, complete with checkered tile floor that lead up to a wooden coat rack. Clint's old boots were sitting by its base with the laces exploding out to either side. The rest of them were covered in red clay and grease. Just passed that came a thick white carpet runner. Not a mark was on it, beside the imprints of Clint's feet. Taking the hint, Bruce kicked his own shoes off and left them by Barton's.

"I didn't want to bother you," Bruce said, following the carpet runner up the small hallway. "But Pepper's hosting dinner in Tony's glass castle. She wanted everyone to come if they could. She called your phone a couple times, but you didn't answer." Tony's glass castle referred to the flat hanger way where he erected his bar, pool, and general bachelor pad.

The hallway spilled into a small, open kitchen which bucked up against the living room. The white carpet continued down a short step and spread out from there while the kitchen took up where the mudroom left off and was covered in the black and white checkered tiling. Bruce was surprised at the darkness of the place. The wall were either black, or eggplant. Maybe even navy blue. The appliances were a mixture of brushed steel or black. Most of them still had the new tags, stickers, or were simply left unplugged from installation. Everything smelled fresh and new. Despite being at the Tower for two months, none of it looked lived in.

"Clint?" Bruce asked, looking around in the dark.

"Couch." Clint replied.

Bruce stepped down into the living room, his feet sinking into the heavy thread of the carpet. He was surprised at the view he was slapped with the minute he turned the corner. A part of him became suddenly, very jealous.

Clint was sitting on a couch built for seven or eight people at the very least. It too was dark, like every other accent in the place. He sat up against the arm of it with his face turned to the amazing view which brought Bruce up short. Fifteen windows, collating to a ten foot glass wall, stretched the entire length of his living room, giving Clint an unparralled outlook of the New York Cityscape. This was where the few stray beams of light came from. Though as night dragged in, Clint was swamped in the shadows of it.

"Don't believe in light switches?" Bruce asked jokingly.

"Couldn't reach it." Clint replied.

That was a strange response to have. Bruce strode toward him until the archer was sitting just to his right. "You were out for a while. How was the super-secret spy the mission?"

"Fine until I woke up three hours ago and it wasn't. I wanted to call, but I couldn't reach the phone. I would have asked JARVIS to get someone, but then again—" Clint let his voice fall. Everyone knew the result of that.

Suddenly aware that something was very wrong, Bruce moved in closer. He crossed in front of the archer with his back to the windows and considered Barton's face. He seemed all right from what could be assessed in the shadows. "What do you mean by that?" Bruce asked.

Clint was sitting up in the little corner created by a depth of pillow-like couch cushions with his gaze directed toward the city beyond them. When Bruce came around, his blue eyes focused on the scientist instead. Some kind of struggle lay dormant there.

"You ever been in a fire fight?" Clint asked.

Sensing a story coming, Bruce looked around him for something to sit on. There was an old cedar chest pulled in front of the couch like an ottoman. He moved aside an empty shot glass and sat across from Clint. "A few, yes."

"As Bruce Banner?"

"Yes."

Clint nodded his chin. Until that action came, Bruce didn't realize just how taught the archer had been. His every muscle was flexed. In the unwelcome entrance of a circling spotlight, a beam of white fell onto his face. For the briefest flash, Bruce met Clint's dilated eyes. Was it fear? Was he drunk?

"I've been in plenty." Clint said. "Enough to know better. Did you ever have a friend check you after?"

Bruce shook his head. "I'm not sure what you mean." He admitted, glancing around for the bottle of alcohol which most likely accompanied the glass he'd found.

"If you shoot at someone, and that someone shoots back at you, that's what your friends are for. They check you, make sure you didn't get shot or something and you're too high on adrenaline to know it." Clint said. Bruce's wandering eyes zeroed back in like sniper scopes. The passing spotlight cycled back. In the brief light, Clint's true emotion came through. It wasn't just fear. It was utter terror. Clint swallowed a lump in his throat loud enough Bruce could hear it.

"Clint did you get shot on that mission and just now realized it?" Bruce asked, gently.

"I was so tired. I just came back. I felt something hit me, I thought it was a fist. Tasha wasn't with me. I was on my own." Clint admitted, his voice trying to escalate as panic worked its way in, but within a few seconds, Clint's voice evened again.

Bruce wanted to reach forward, place his hand on Clint's shoulder but if Clint couldn't stand crowds, personal contact was most likely off limits. "You know, that's ok, Clint. You're up, you're talking. That's good. Tony's just finished installing that med suite downstairs and I'm sure he's ready to give his x-ray unit a reason to fire up."

The next beam of light hit and Clint's eyes were closed. He inhaled and exhaled in a slow, controlled, stress coping mechanism. "I don't think I was shot." Clint admitted.

"Um, ok. Why don't you just tell me what happened, then?" Bruce tried a new tactic.

"The guy had a knife. Then he didn't. I saw the handle hit the floor. I thought it was the whole knife. At the time I did. I think sitting up was a bad idea, but I didn't know. I think it's bad." The words came out in a fast jumble. Clint moved his right hand a little, circling it to his left side, then high, where it stopped and hooked on something poking out of his flesh.

Bruce suddenly had a very bad feeling.

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so, i haven't finished writing this because it really is shameless whump.

if you want more, you've got to review. flying by the seat of my pants here!


	2. Chapter 2

I forgot to post that you can look at Clint's future radiographs from this book on my Ezra Cross facebook page. cause sometimes, its fun to have a visual.

Thank you for all the fantastic reviews! i still dont know where I'm going with this thing. but here we go!

Thank you to::: Hamato Alexa, Niom Lamboise, Batghost, Qweb, MO-5431, Lillehafrue, The Guest, Everlily Emrys Holmes, Soul Bucket, iskaen, discordchick, ELOSHAZZY, Ms. Hawkeye, and m klindt !

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**Friends Check for Bullet Wounds**

Chapter 2

An iceberg in Bruce's chest broke free and floated through his veins. It sent a chill up his spine. Clint nodded down at his hand, indicating that Bruce should feel whatever he'd found there. Gingerly, the doctor leaned forward with his hand extended where Clint took it in his and directed the fingers to the spot he woke up and found amiss. Bruce could understand why. There was the flat wedge of blade protruding from Clint's side. It wasn't much, but just enough to clue the archer in that something terrible had happened.

"It doesn't hurt." Clint told him, moving his hand aside while Bruce inspected him. "None of it hurts. It just felt like a kidney punch when it happened. It was around two this morning. I barreled into him but the guy's built like a brick house. He came down hard on me. When I woke up he was gone."

"You actually lost consciousness?" Bruce asked.

"I knocked out, it was dark, I woke up it was sunny. I finished the mission, which wasn't much, called in, and took a taxi here. I stretched out and didn't wake up until a few hours ago. I caught my arm on it when I sat up."

Bruce's head shot up from his inspection and gazed around the room. "Light switch?"

Clint pointed it out and Bruce launched up to flick it on. Barton closed his eyes against the shock of bright which swamped the room. Eggplant, Bruce realized but wasn't sure why. The walls were eggplant colored. He waited for Clint to better adjust before inspecting his eyes for signs of a concussion. He had a minor goose-egg on the back of his skull but beside that he seemed to be doing well.

"Ok, move this arm, just a little. Not much. Right there. Stop. Don't move." Bruce directed Clint's left arm away from his side so he could see without the added shadow. He turned up the edges of the Avenger's shirt, guided it over the knife handle, and up until it stopped beneath his armpit. Sure enough, Clint was right. He'd been stabbed.

Bruce met Clint's face. "How big is this? Did you see it?"

"Ten inches. Like a steak knife with a serrated edge." Clint swallowed again. Bruce noticed the tension was merely his overwhelming attempt to keep himself as physically still as possible. Clint moved his right hand across his chest until it stopped just to the right of his sternum. "I can actually feel it, the point of it, right here. The dang thing almost went the entire way through me."

Bruce pulled up the rest of Clint's cotton tank top, he carefully ran his fingers along the elevation Clint indicated. Sure enough, he felt it to. Like a point covered by a thin layer of muscle and skin. Bruce leaned back a little, extended both of his hands to indicate the size and with his right hand by the handle, and the left at the tip he tried to judge the trajectory. Clint watched him then the blue spheres searched through Bruce's silent features for something to grasp hold of.

"It's bad. I know it's bad. I wish I didn't sit up, but I was afraid to move after I found it. I've been sitting here for hours trying to figure out what the hell to do."

Bruce leaned back again and pulled the glasses off his nose. He could list a dozen things the knife either displaced or completely shredded. The fact that Barton was even breathing right now was a miracle. He very well could have bled to death already. A serrated edged blade was nothing to joke about.

"How big was this guy? A giant?" Bruce asked, wagging his head. A force like the one it took to stab a man all the way to the hilt was immense.

"He might have won a Thor-look-alike contest." Clint replied. He waited, wanting Bruce to say something. But Bruce seemed to be so trapped in his own surprise he froze. "Bruce, should I start making up my will while I'm sitting here, or what?"

Bruce blinked. "I—sorry—Clint this is…" he swore, considering it all again. It was bad, that's what it was. "Ok. Sorry, it's just not what I expected to find. I'm sure it's not what you ever expected to find, but seriously." Bruce set a hand toward his forehead where it rubbed against the wrinkles wanting to form over his thinking frontal lobe. Clint had to move, but at the same time he absolutely could not move. They had to get him down to medical, immediately, but how were they possibly going to do that? "Ok, Clint, this is what I'm thinking. First, I want you to breathe a little less deeply. I know it might be uncomfortable, but please just take shallow, slow breaths for me. If this thing shot through your diaphragm, we might have a very serious issue. I mean, we definitely do have a very serious issue. Let's not dispute that at all. Just do that for me. Slow, shallow, in nose, out mouth."

Clint swallowed loudly again and barely nodded. He adjusted his breathing pattern to short, shallow breaths. It wasn't exactly comfortable though it did keep him from expanding his lungs so much the knife shifted in his guts.

"Better. Second, don't move either your chest or your abdomen. Not even an inch. The last thing I want you to do until this is over is move. You understand, right?"

Clint wanted to nod again, but didn't "Yeah. I'm all cramped up. My legs I mean. After I sat up I was too scared to do anything. I couldn't call anyone, leave, nothing. I've been just sitting here in the same position."

"Can you feel your legs?"

"Not my right one." Clint admitted.

Bruce considered the limb. It was tucked under the left, which was halfcocked up and bent at the knee. The rest of Clint's body was at a slightly over ninety-degree angle at the waist. His back rested on the deep, comfortable looking pillows.

"It went pins and needles first, then started to go numb. I did try to adjust it, but then I had to stop. I felt it moving. The knife I mean." Clint went on.

"Ok. Shallow breaths, ok. Don't move. I want you to put your hands," Bruce half stood, took Clint's right arm first and slowly draped it along the back of the couch and off of his chest. He then took the left arm and rolled it away from Barton's body along the couch cushion. "There. Keep them away from your body. No excess pressure on your chest. The next thing I need you to do is relax."

The pupils, once expanded in fear, constricted slightly now. "Yeah, cause that's the first thing on my mind right now. Relaxing."

"You know I'm serious. First off, you're using up all your energy by sitting there like a wound up rubber band waiting to snap. Secondly, Barton, you are already getting tired. I can see that pretty clearly. You get tired, you begin to sink down, your body shifts without you knowing it and suddenly this knife unplugs whatever leak it may have stopped up. If you value living, then please. Try to relax."

Clint closed his eyes again. He fell into another relaxation technique Bruce had become familiar with in his days of preventing Hulk-outs. One by one Clint's muscles systematically tensed, then released. He started with his left foot, calf, thigh, then his pelvis, core, chest, and face, he continued down both arms until every piece of him had tightened and loosed. It took almost two minutes but finally Barton opened his eyes again. Bruce might have learned the technique for his Hulk-outs, but why Barton ever knew it was a mystery to him.

"Untensed, sir." He reported robotically. Bruce often forgot Barton had a soldier's history. "If you're worried about a pneumothorax, there's a stethoscope in the med bag, my bedroom, chest, right side bottom drawer."

"You've had air in your chest before, I'm assuming." Bruce said, rising to fetch it.

"No, but Natasha has." Clint replied.

"What about your phone? I need to call Tony and get a med team here before something happens. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you're stable now, but I can't just let you sit on your couch for the rest of your life with a knife sticking out of your chest."

Clint wanted to point with his hand, but thought better of it. "Mission pack on the floor by the window. Outside pocket."

Bruce went there first. He stooped down next to the duffle bag and rifled through the four outer sleeves. He came up with bandages, Neosporin, arrow fletches, and plastic nocks, but nothing more.

"Inside it then, I guess. I know it's in there." Clint panted. The slow shallow breaths, while it may keep the knife in position did nothing for his anxiety. It was like being in a constant state of hyperventilation. The longer he did it, the more he wanted to yawn, sigh, or simply take one long, deep breath.

Bruce unzipped the top and met Clint's collapsible SHIELD bow. He plucked it out, rested it to the side, and peered in. There was a blinking screen shining through the fabric of an inner pocket. He yanked it open and emerged with the phone. "Missed call. Pepper from earlier about dinner tonight."

"What about dinner tonight?" Clint asked.

Bruce tapped a few keys and redialed the missed number. "She called it Family Night. Pepper heard we were all going to be back to and cooked us up something. She invited you, but you never answered."

"I heard the phone. Tasha called me earlier about it, before she got on the first plane from Munich. Wanted to make sure I'd be back." Clint admitted.

"Yeah, when you never answered they sent me down to invite you up."

"Good thing they did. I might have been sitting here all night."

After a few attempts the line connected. Bruce gave a thumbs up to Barton and with the phone cradled against his shoulder he headed into the next room to locate the medical bag. He needed to grab it anyway, but being able to discuss the severity of what he found without letting Clint overhear his concerns was also a bonus. Once he managed his way passed earshot, be spoke.

"Hey, Pepper, no it's not Clint. It's me. Is Tony sitting right there?" Bruce glanced around for another light switch and finally located it beneath the mirror on his left. He flicked it on.

_"Bruce, you missed lighting the candles. Therefore you are elected for the group prayer."_ Tony came on with a smile in his voice.

"Yeah, forgive me, but I think we're all going to be missing dinner." Bruce replied. He paused then because he had to. The moment he got a good look at Clint's private bedroom his entire mind filtered blank. Frankly, there was nothing there. No bed, one small dresser, nothing in the closet, an open bathroom door with a lonely toothbrush on the counter. He didn't even see toothpaste to go with it. He crossed to the wall of windows similar to the main room and found a heap of blankets piled there. One was an old comforter, folded once long ways and placed on the carpet like a sleeping bag. The second was a thin, army style throw blanket which lay crumpled to the side. The newest thing among them was the pillow. It had a depression where Clint's head often lay, but nothing else. Not even a pillow case. Bruce looked back at the room door as if expecting Clint to be standing there watching the scientist judge his life. He was still alone.

_"Hello, Bruce? Did I just lose you?"_

Tony. Bruce shook off the peculiarity of the find and crossed to the chest of drawers. "Yeah, sorry, I walked into the next room. Tony, you said you were working on staff for that ER you built downstairs?"

Tony snickered a little. Relatively speaking, everything in Avengers Tower was "downstairs" when compared to how the team itself lived. _"I'm still interviewing. SHIELD has a team they keep loaning me, but you know SHIELD. Why? Planning to go into a turkey coma?"_

"Not quite. Look, I need you to give whatever team you have a call. If you don't think they can handle it, then I need a life flight to land upstairs." Bruce pulled open the drawer Clint indicated and found a treasure troth of stored medical supplies. From bandage material, to hypodermics, antibiotics, charcoal, anti-toxins, and even the odd stethoscope or two. He considered taking only the items he needed, but then again, the material was so well organized it made more sense to simply pull out the entire drawer.

_"What happened?"_ Tony demanded, an obvious change in his voice.

"I came down to check on Barton. He got himself in a knife fight of some kind this morning. He didn't realize it at the time, adrenaline, he'd been hurt but now he does." Bruce finally worked the drawer loose over its firm attachment. He sat it on the floor and ran a hand through his hair. "It's serious. I need you down here with Thor and Steve. I'll figure out what we're going to do after I have a better look at the situation."

There was the briefest pause on Tony's end preceding the sound of chairs being pushed back and the clank of silverware._ "Got it. Calling the team in now. We're coming down. Clint's room?"_

"Yeah, see you in a few."

Bruce pulled the phone away and dropped it into the drawer. He placed his fingers under either side and lifted as he stood and returned to Clint.

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Soooooooo I still have no idea what's happening next

please review. because honestly that's the only way this is ever getting finished.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you again for the lovely thoughts! I've finished almost 10 chapters over the weekend, so lets see what happens now!

Thank you to:::

AvengerOfFiction, A Fan, Guest, JRBarton (always and forever), MO-543, Batghost, icanhearthedrums (my faithfully devoted), discordchick (you know me so well...LOL), khaitosfren, TheNaggingCube, BecauseImBatman108, musicmixer08, Soul Bucket, Qweb, ELOSHAZZY, DatNatCatThoe (awe, thank you for the compliments!), Niom Lamboise (you are one pretty fantastic guesser:), Lillehafrue, Ms. Hawkeye (my dearest), Hamato Alexa, and YukinaKid (Hi med student! I'm a 3rd yr veterinary student. So all medical things i write are from the perspective of working on every species besides a human being, so a lot of research goes into them)

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**Friends Check for Bullet Wounds**

Chapter 3

Clint's living room seemed much darker than it had been before after Bruce stepped out of the brightness in the empty bedroom. Maybe it was the heavy color of the walls, or the night descending on the city. It might have even been the mood of pent-up tension he waded through. Whatever the cause, it brought a weight of despondency down on his shoulders. This situation was far from ideal. He was holding the drawer full of medical supplies in both hands. Clint hadn't moved from his position on the couch, and seemed to be looking at him with some trepidation. It was obvious he expected Bruce to say something about his meager lifestyle, though Bruce didn't.

"What'd Tony say?" Barton asked.

Bruce set the drawer down on the cedar chest and stopped beside it. He extracted the penlight he discovered and grabbed a piece of gauze. Blatantly ignoring the issue that Clint was desperately waiting to defend himself about was the name of Bruce's game. Clint had enough issues facing him without being asked why he felt he needed to sleep on the floor.

"Ok, Tony's been working on this state-of-the-art clinic down a few flights from here. He's been wanting to find a way to survive without the ARC in his chest, but he's not big on trusting his recovery to big hospitals." Bruce looked up at Barton over the rim of his glasses. "Let's be honest, the last major work he had down was getting the arc into his chest."

Clint wanted to nod, but resisted.

"So he's been working on a team of surgeons he feels he can trust. I've been helping him where I can, but Tony is Tony. He's got a lot of equipment down there we could use right now. Like an x-ray machine and CT scan."

"Tony bought a CT scanner?" Clint asked dubiously.

"He found all the parts on Ebay. It took him a whole day to reassemble it. After that he bought a 3D printer and linked the two together. He took a test ride a few hours after that and literally made a life cast of his internal organs." Bruce smiled, inspiring the slightest upturn in Clint's bottom lip. "Don't ask me why."

The pen light in one hand and gauze in the other, Bruce leaned down to get a better look at the entry point for the stake knife. The first point of the serration was just available for his naked eye to see, attesting to Clint's excellent recall. Whatever handle had once been on the blade must have come off after the knife sank into him. "Ok, I think what happened is he stabbed you and tried to pull it out, but it wouldn't budge. Must have pulled hard enough to take the handle off with him. It's not easy to stab a person like this."

Clint stopped trying to breathe through his nose and out his mouth like any good yoga master might tell him. The others would be flooding his room soon. He'd have to move, somehow, and hope the motion didn't tear something inside of him that it shouldn't. It's a fear that kept him glued in place for hours, by himself, as the New York sunset bathed the city in blackness. His windows faced eastward, but he could still see the reflected red/orange glow fade before the city lights flickered on for the nightlife.

"That's why I like short knives. Less force. Easier to extract. No serrated edge."

"I didn't know that about you." Bruce replied conversationally.

"Don't do that."

Bruce pulled his hand away from where it gently probed the outside of the entry wound. He looked up at Barton. "Ok, I'm sorry, was that hurting you?"

"Not that. I was serious when I said I can't feel it. I mean that doctor patient bull. I hate that. Small talk. Keep me calm. Make me focus. I know all the tricks." The tension came back to his jaw the more he spoke.

Bruce risked a telling off by reaching forward and resting his hand on Clint's shoulder. "Ok, I understand. I'm sorry. No more small talk. Do that exercise again and stop tensing up."

Slowly Clint released his bunched muscles. "And stop saying "ok". You do that when you're nervous. If you're nervous, I'm nervous."

"Ok—" Bruce started, then stopped. He smiled again. "Sorry. You're right. I do tend to do that." He rooted around in the box again and withdrew the stethoscope. He tested the ear bulbs with his thumb and forefinger before working them in. "Try not to pant so much. I just want to tap around your chest and see if I can hear anything that sounds like air or blood."

"Right."

Starting at the top of Clint's chest, Bruce placed the bell of the stethoscope against his skin and carefully listened. He tried a few different areas and when he finished with the front, he moved to Clint's back. He couldn't reach much there.

"Tony." Clint said, the sound of his voice reverberating in the stethoscope.

Bruce pulled one of the ear pieces out and shouted toward the front door. "Come on in! We're in the living room."

A few moments after he called, Tony. Thor, Steve, and Pepper appeared. Like a flood they descended on the scene and spread out to get a better look around. Undoubtedly Tony didn't share much of the details with the other Avengers on their way down.

Bruce removed the second ear piece to look at them. "Tony, the team?"

"Be here in thirty minutes." Tony replied. "Or, we could med flight him. Your call."

"Is the surgical suite already prepped to handle emergencies?"

Tony only nodded. His focus was everywhere and nowhere all at once as he tried to take in the scene. It was a lot to process. Clint's entire place seemed brand new and unlived in, despite his extensive residency. He had a drawer full of top notch medical supplies. Where he acquired them was anyone's guess. Clint himself was laying a bit too stiffly, and too strangely in one position and he was breathing like a COPD patient.

"Are you sure?" Bruce pressed. It wasn't that he didn't trust Stark. When the guy did something he did it to the fullest. What the question did accomplish was snapping Tony out of his mental assessments of the place.

Tony's focus stayed on Clint's face but he answered Bruce. "We've run forty-five scenarios already. Even med-flighted some of the overage from New York General here instead. Fifteen gunshot victims, twelve stabbings, and eighty-three car accidents in the two weeks I've had it up and running. I don't have the exact team I want yet, but the team I do have is still the best." He said the last statement with an air of complete authenticity. It might have been an attempt to sell Clint a feeling of security. It worked.

"Fine, we'll stay here then. I just don't want to move him more than once. Is there any overnight staff downstairs now?"

"They're prepping the place." Tony's focus returned to Bruce. "What exactly are we dealing with?"

"I got stabbed." Clint answered for himself. "The knife's stuck in me. Ten inch serrated blade, upward trajectory from left to right. Bruce, I think it's getting a little hard to breathe."

"You're tensing up again. I need you to try and relax. Short, shallow. In your nose, out your mouth. You do have a bit of free air in your chest and something that sounds like fluid, but it's not much yet. Your left lung sounds good, but there's something not right in the bottom of your right one. I'm worried the knife is plugging a leak there." Bruce told him, then to the others. "We have to move him, but it needs to be done in a very safe, stable, way. Steve, you know what a back board and a gurney looks like?"

"Yes." The Captain said authoritatively. He was still trying to come to grips with everything going on. Here only minutes ago he was trying to explain the purpose of butter on a dinner roll with Thor, and now he was standing knee deep in a deadly situation. It took him a shorter amount of time to process than a normal person might, but it was still a shock.

"Good. Take Thor, go downstairs and bring me one up."

The two left instantly.

"I thought the game was not to move me." Clint said.

"You're right, but we can't do surgery in your living room. Once they come back we're going to have to package you up. I'm going to try and straighten your legs out, then cross them at the ankles. I want your arms behind your head and chest exposed. We'll try and maintain the same angle you're at now so nothing shifts. Ok?"

Clint dipped his chin a little. "Got it."

"I said ok again."

"Yeah you did. Stop it."

"I'm sorry." Bruce replied.

Clint glanced over at Pepper. She was standing against the wall wondering what in the world she was doing there in the first place. She felt like perhaps she should call someone, or go running from the room, even give Clint his privacy. Since Bruce and Tony worked so closely together, she felt an understanding had developed between herself and the doctor. Maybe even a friendship. Natasha and she had been acquaintances for almost a year, and Steve's lack of real world exposure was an outlet for Pepper to help draw him in. Thor needed no such attention. He was quite literally the life of the party. That was all different with Clint Barton. He declined every invite she'd ever given him. She hadn't even been in his room since the day she helped pick out a cheery paint color, which obviously he hadn't gone with, and conversation was limited to a hello she received once almost two weeks before. Frankly the woman looked like a fish out of water.

"I tried to answer." Clint said to her. Bruce was searching around the box for a pair of scissors, Tony helped him. Stark found them, handed the scissors to Bruce, and the doctor worked adjacent to the seams in Clint's shirt.

"What?" Pepper asked.

"You called," Clint enlightened. "Missed the first one. Too tired to get up. Then you called back. Three something. Woke me up. I went to get my phone, but I didn't make it there. I tried to answer."

For someone who hadn't received as much as an indication of her existence, Pepper smiled. She came a little closer. "I'm sorry I woke you up. I didn't realize you got in so late."

"Wasn't supposed to. Supposed to get back a few days ago. Fury called me back in when we got a bead on this guy. Tasha told me about her flying in tonight and I wanted to get back."

Bruce removed the front of Clint's shirt and didn't bother with the back. It would fall free when they went to move him. He didn't want to interrupt the connection Clint was obviously working to make, or point out that Clint was himself initaiting the dreaded "small talk" he'd barked at Bruce about, but he had to. "Clint, I'm going to place an IV in your left hand. Would you prefer the back of it, or the side?"

"Back." Clint replied. He started to move, but quickly stopped.

"It's all right. You just stay like that." Bruce told him. Tony came up with the supplies and held or passed them as Bruce needed. He continued to analyze the sparseness of Barton's room.

"Potluck, right?" Clint asked Pepper again. He wanted to put his mind on anything beside the massive knife that threatened to make him a human popsicle.

"Yup. I burned the turkey. You didn't miss much there." She said lightly.

"Tasha told me to bring a dish. I thought about making pie or broccoli or something. I stopped at the store. They weren't open yet."

"That's fine. You didn't have to bring anything."

Clint closed his eyes as the pinprick of the guide needle slid under his skin and probed for his vein. Bruce wasn't fooling around with the catheter diameter. He went straight for the horse-sizes.

"At least you've still got good veins." The doctor remarked. "I bet Tony could hit these without his targeting system."

"They're more sunken than normal. Haven't drank anything since," Clint thought about it. "Yesterday. Maybe the day before. Saturday I think."

"You look dehydrated. Why so long?" the doctor questioned. He had already consider running a bag of fluids, now his mind was almost decided. He might want to rehydrate Barton now and give him a fighting chance, but if he flooded his system too soon, he might cause more bleeding than he stopped. A single dislodged clot in the wrong place could prove fatal. To have something to compare later blood tests too, Bruce drew a few vials of Clint's blood.

"Mission got in the way." Clint said, and that was all.

Bruce finished taping the first line in when he decided to start a second one. He was hoping all the prep work would prevent things from going really bad, really fast, but there was no way to know exactly what might happen when they tried to transfer Barton onto a gurney. If the knife's edge was working to plug up a leak, even the slightest movement could dislodge it, causing a massive hemorrhage. Stabbing him multiple times now in the interest of saving his life during just such an emergency was preferable to not having any IV access at all.

"Well, once all this is over, we're just going to have to try dinner again. My treat. We'll go wherever you like. What's your favorite food?" Pepper told him.

"Not shwarma."

Tony looked over from where he busied himself acting as Bruce's nurse. He held the second catheter in one hand and a few alcohol prep pads in the other and stood prepared with a flush and IV hub beside them. "You didn't like shwarma?"

"I was stationed in Nairobi for ten months. For some reason that's all they ate there."

"Stationed? Like in the army?" Pepper asked. She'd abandoned her spot along the wall and now slowly sank to the carpet by his right hand. She pulled her feet under herself and propped her chin on her crossed arms.

Clint winced as the second catheter wormed its way in. Bruce apologized. "I was a grunt for a year. Sniper for two. My brother was in the army."

Now everyone stopped to look at him. Pepper said what they all thought. "I didn't know you had a brother."

"He's in the FBI now. We haven't spoken in a few years." His tone seemed to beckon an end to the questioning, which was only supported by the arrival of Steve and Thor. They brought with them a team of four paramedics and a field surgeon who'd just arrived. Bruce passed his taped in catheter to the first medic and directed the Avengers team to back away and give them room to work. Tony grabbed the drawer of supplies and slid it back along with the rest of the cedar chest. Pepper clambered to her feet and stood next to him. She slipped her hand into his back pocket.

"Is he going to be ok?" she whispered.

"I don't know." He whispered back.

"Agent Barton," the field surgeon introduced himself, removing a sling pack from his shoulder. "My name is Dr. Martinez. I remember you from a hospital in Malibu last year, missed you those couple months ago. I was sent to the German outpost. Do you remember me?"

Clint opened his eyes again and analyzed the physician. The last thing he expected was to see a familiar face. "Martinez. Yeah, three kids."

"Four, wife had her baby a few months ago." Martinez replied. He removed a pair of gloves from his supplies and fed the teal latex over his hands.

"It was a boy." Clint said.

"You guessed it. I really thought we'd have four girls, but I ate crow on that one. I owe you a beer. Don't forget to remind me."

Clint's gaze moved past the doctor to Tony. "How did you find him?" He asked.

"Doesn't matter." Martinez shrugged, reclaimed Clint's attention. "How's that girl that brought you in before? The blond?"

"Red head now."

"Bet she's one hot red head. And that ankle? Heal up all right after a few weeks?"

Clint nodded.

"Good." Martinez removed a penlight of his own and assessed the damage. "Talk to me, Agent Barton. What did you get into?"

"I was carving a turkey and the knife slipped. I fell on it."

"Uh huh." Martinez judged the entry and looked around Clint's right side for a potential exit. Clint moved his right hand down very gently and indicated the spot beside his breast bone.

"Under the skin. Ten inch, serrated steak knife."

"How big was the turkey?" Martinez asked. He ran his fingers over the elevation.

"About 6'9" and two fifty."

Martinez hummed again, finished his cursory assessments and turned Clint over to the paramedics who busied themselves with heart rates, oxygen saturation, and blood pressure. The doctor faced the rest of the team. "I think it's obvious he needs surgery but we've got to be prepared for what we find in there. First thing, x-rays. I want a full series. After that, CT. The blade is in there from back to front in an upward angle," he held his hand against his own side to demonstrate. "There is an awful lot it probably went through and I would be surprised if he didn't need a chest tube by the time this is over. The critical thing at this point is everything from his waist up must absolutely stay in the same position until we don't have a choice but to lay him down." The doctor looked at Thor and Steve. "I want you two helping with lifting him off the couch. I want as many hands as possible so if someone trips there are plenty other people to cover them."

"We will do whatever you require." Thor said with Steve's steadfast agreement.

"Good. Dr. Banner? I think I might make you the head of the "keep him calm" committee if you know what I mean. Agent Barton isn't exactly a model patient. If he feels threatened, he will up and leave. I need everyone to do whatever they can to prevent that from happening."

"But he would never do that with a steak knife sticking out of his chest!" Pepper protested.

The doctor gave her a long look. "When I dealt with him before, he had a fork sticking out of his Achilles' tendon. I had to chase him down in the parking lot and force him to be seen. He will most certainly leap off of an operating table."

"Stop spreading lies about me, doc." Clint whispered. He was trying his hardest to remain still while the paramedics circled him in enough bandage material to recreate the Mummy.

"I was warning them you might run off."

Clint looked over. Someone was concerned in his failing oxygen status and situated a mask over his face. He continued to take short, panting breaths. "I guess – that's all right – to tell them."

"Well, it's not something you are going to do today." Bruce said. He patted the doctor's arm as he stepped around him and returned to Clint's side. "Here's the plan. Once you're packaged up, these guys here are going to bring over the backboard. We're going to sit that at the same level as you on the couch cushion then Thor and Steve are moving in." He indicated the people as he called out their names and directed them where he wanted. "Thor's going to hold your torso up. Steve's going to grab your waist. Tony's getting your legs and I'll be holding your head and neck. We're working together like a cradle to slide you from one spot to the other. The paramedics will lift the backboard then all of us are going to work in tandem to life you onto the gurney. Does everyone understand what they're doing?"

No one returned a confused expression and all heads seemed to nod in agreement. It was going to take a tricky, coordinated effort, but if the Avengers could close an alien portal, moving Barton two feet without actually moving him at all would be easy.

"Dr. Banner, let's get his legs straight first." Dr. Martinez suggested. Bruce agreed.

"They're cramped." Clint reminded them, bracing a little.

"Don't do that." Bruce said. He touched Clint's bare shoulder again. "No tension. Repeat that to yourself. Thor's going to hold your shoulders now in case you start to feel pain when we straighten you out. Steve, you get in position too. Clint's leg fell asleep from being here so long."

"Beyond the pins and needles stage." Clint replied.

"Ready, doctor?" Martinez asked.

Bruce checked Clint, who gave a faint nod.

Martinez worked quickly and diligently. He barely lifted Clint's left leg, left it there for Tony to hold up, and eased Barton's right leg out of its bent position and directed it straight. At his direction, Tony hooked Clint's left foot over his right by crossing his ankles. At first Clint did well. He continued to make his short, fleeting breaths beneath the fog of his oxygen mask. Then very quickly, everything changed.

"Ow, ow, ow, OW!" Clint's right leg seized. He want desperately to shift and take the pressure off of it, but Steve was holding his hips in place and Thor wouldn't let his torso move so much as an inch. He could feel the rush of the released nerve pounding through him. His body desperately wanted to either hold the offended limb up or run around on one leg until it stopped screaming. He gasped. His eyes began to water as he unwillingly fought against his friends' hold.

"Stop! Clint, stop twisting. It's a bad idea. Just stop moving before you really hurt yourself." Bruce tried to reason with him in desperation.

"It hurts! God, it hurts. Bruce, I've got to move my leg. I've got to do something!"

Banner leaned over and massaged his hands against Barton's muscles. "Stop thinking about it, Clint. And stop trying to move. I'm serious, if you don't you might kill yourself!"

Clint tried to take deeper breaths instead but only moaned when he felt something shift. Whatever it was, he knew instantly it wasn't good. "Something –just—happened—feel—" the leg pain gone, Clint's panic stricken eyes zeroed in on Bruce. "Hard to breathe. Can't breathe."

"Everyone in position, we're moving Agent Barton right now!" Dr. Martinez announced. "Ms. Pott's the door please. Mr. Stark, the legs. I've got that! All right bring the back board here. Get ready. On my count, one-two-"

At the number three, everyone stirred together. Clint couldn't help the rigidity that seeped in like a case of tetanus. He was tighter than a bow string. The oxygen was doing nothing to help him pass that feeling of suffocation. He didn't have to try and take shallow breaths, they were all he could manage no matter how deeply he inhaled. From the backboard, they set him on the gurney. The back of the bed rose up to meet his position, though the fit wasn't perfect. On a whim, Tony rushed away into the bedroom and returned a few seconds later with Clint's lone pillow in his hands. It served to fill the gap they required. He said nothing about the vast emptiness he discovered in that room beyond.

Once Clint hit the gurney, the world suddenly sped up. They rushed out the apartment as fast as they safely could and shot up the hall where one of the paramedics held the elevator door open. There was only space enough for the medical men and Bruce for the first trip downward.

The Avengers stood together in the hallway, feeling suddenly very alone.

"We better get down there." Steve said in the silence. After a few moments longer he began to head for the stairs.

* * *

hehehehe... oh the cliffy.

please keep on reviewing. I need it for sure.


	4. Chapter 4

Another day, another chapter! (**reposted, spelling correction made:) sorry usually i've been better about this, but I gave my fantastic editors a break to just sit back and enjoy this one while they've been slaving away on "I Can Hear the Drums" )

Thank you to:::

WhoAteMyEnchilada (well, we can't have that can we? :), Batghost (for once, this isn't at all apart of my timeline:), Boooyakasha, jensmit75, Ms. Hawkeye, m klindt, Dsgdiva, shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod, Daughter of the North (why thank you! i'm not into pointless fluff either, so i avoid it at all costs), TheNaggingCube, Hamato Alexa, horsequeen1379, Qweb, YukinaKid(i hope your test went well! we just had Food Animal Internal Med (like, every animal meant for food) ), comicsans-spideydehaanfan, MO-5431, Niom Lamboise, discordchick, JRBarton(oh my spelling truly is deplorable, but you enjoy that time off! and love this little ride:), Jokerang(Thank you! like i said, veterinary over this way, so this is what we do with every species and I'll just apply that to people:), Lillehafrue

* * *

**Friends Check for Bullet Wounds**

Chapter 4

"Hang with me, Clint. Focus here, don't think about the rest. Look at my face." Bruce instructed dutifully. Two panicked eyes met his. Clint's color was beginning to fade. He could hardly breathe now, though he still attempted to form a few words. All around him the action in the elevator was electric. The field surgeon kept his stethoscope to Clint's bare chest while the paramedics lifted his arm up and back. A pair of hands began to palpate along his ribs only seconds before something cold and wet hit him.

"Che—ches—tu—" he croaked.

"We think the knife may have hit your lung. There's air and blood pooling in your chest. We need to get it out." Bruce replied.

Clint shook his head. _No_.

"You won't be able to breathe until we do this." Bruce continued to rationalize with him. The elevator door sprung open, and with one paramedic still lathering Clint's skin in surgical scrub, they rushed into the trauma room.

"We have a thirty-year-old, white male victim of a knife attack. Knife is in place." Dr. Martinez announced the minute they entered. The rest of Tony's team had already arrived. "Pneumothorax with presumed hemothorax. We need an emergency thoracotomy, patient's O-2 stats are in the eighties and rapidly falling. Allen, I want you on chest tube. Someone get radiology here immediately. The minute the tube's in place we are starting there."

Clint continued to shake his head. He tried to pull his hand down, but someone grabbed it and kept it up. He nearly rolled right over.

"Grab him!" Martinez exclaimed.

Despite his inability to breathe, Clint's overwhelming desperation to avoid a chest tube won out. When it came to a fight or flight response, Barton always had a large helping of both. First he would fight, anyone and everyone in front of him, and once he thought he'd fought enough he'd disappear into the wind. Trying to accomplish that feat in a hospital setting never exactly went over well with the men attempting to help him. Today was no different. The bulkier heroes arrived just as Clint considered throwing himself right out of bed, knife in his guts or not. Thor set on him instantly with Steve returning to his own position and Tony left Pepper by the door to lay on Barton's legs.

"Clint, stop!" Bruce shouted over the general ruckus. The archer's side was prepped and ready. A nurse came around to pin Clint's left arm down with a shackle while another one began injecting healthy doses of pain drugs against Clint's rib.

"O-2 states are almost seventy, he's gonna die if we don't get that tube in him!" Martinez commanded the controlled chaos. "Allen, get in there, get the tube in. Mike, ready with that clamp. Is he tied down? Good, get his left arm tied. Do me a favor and nobody let go of him until he can breathe again."

Bruce, in the cloud of confusion, remained at Clint's face. "Stop fighting. I know it's going to hurt, but you've got to let us do it. Watch me, all right?"

What air Clint could force in released in a swift scream as the blade of the scalpel made its first slice into his skin.

"Someone put a splash block in that now!" Dr. Martinez commanded.

A sea of helping hands appeared and Clint jumped when the stinging sensation of medication flooded the new wound.

"Dr. Banner, if we can't keep him still, we're sedating him." Dr. Martinez chimed.

Clint shook his head again.

"Then you have to stay still." Bruce whispered. Desperately, Barton tried.

At the door, Pepper stood watching the flow of work go on like a well-oiled machine. Martinez controlled the room like a conductor for an orchestra. His word was law. His instruction made everyone jump instantly. Under his direction, things were getting done in fast succession. Tony didn't relent from his position holding Barton down, even when the archer stopped fighting him off. Thor and Steve too kept their positions. Neither knew what to do beyond Bruce's assigned roles and seemed content to stay until doomsday unless asked to withdraw. Bruce kept his entire attention focused on Barton's mind. Pepper couldn't overhear what exactly the doctor promised him, but whatever was being said had a considerable impact.

"Feed the tube in. You've got to get it in. Patient's dying, get the tube in!"

Pepper held her breath. Clint's eyes were beginning to unfocus. His face had changed from red, to pale, and now slightly blue. He continued to try and gasp, but it was as if he was breathing against a boulder trapped on his chest. An alarm went off somewhere. Someone announced that his heart rate dropped.

"Line's in!" a man announced.

The rush of air that evacuated Clint's tense chest was loud enough to hear. Following that was a flood of straight blood. The latter, thankfully, stopped after a few minutes of unrelenting concern. If it hadn't, the staff was fully prepared to forgo radiology and wheel Clint right into surgery. The archer's eyes flipped open. He sucked in a breath of utter relief and Pepper found herself breathing again too. Bruce's steady voice continued.

"Slow," he whispered. "Slow, shallow, it's going to be fine. Slow, shallow breaths."

"Heart rate's coming back up. Blood pressure's lower, but stable." One of the nurses announced. All at once the mood of crisis ended. Half the support staff took hold of the chest tube material and evacuated the immediate area while the other half prepped for the radiology team to come through. After all, surviving a pneumothorax was one thing, Clint still had a knife trapped in him to deal with.

Bruce systematically tapped Thor, Steve, and then Tony. He gave them a direct look. "It's all right, now, I think you guys can take a step back. Right, Clint?"

"Ye-yeah." The archer said.

Together the three stepped away and headed back toward where Pepper stood and observed. Tony crossed toward her and slipped his arms around her waist. Pepper melted against him.

A chill went through Barton's body. He somehow managed to keep his core from shifting but his arms and legs began to vibrate. Bruce pressed his hand into the archer's strapped down one and squeezed.

"Can't stop shaking. Can't." Clint bit his bottom lip.

"It's just the adrenaline." Bruce told him. "Are you feeling cold?"

Clint nodded. "Feel's like I'm freezing. Can't feel my side."

"Your side has a tube in it and half a bottle of lidocaine. We're getting you a blanket now." Bruce glanced at Steve who left instantly.

Dr. Martinez strode forward again and leaned into Clint's line of site. "Agent Barton, how you holding up? I know a lot's going on right now, but it's nothing you haven't been through before, right?"

"Right."

"I've got a mobile x-ray unit here and we're going to snap a picture of that chest. You don't have to do anything but sit there and look pretty. I'm stealing Dr. Banner for a second, though. I think the last thing we need is for a little extra radiation floating around."

Bruce squeezed Clint's hand again reassuringly and headed for the door. Steve moved past him for a second to hand off his discovered blanket to one of the technicians before he too was shuffled out. The room door sealed behind him.

:(:):(:):

"Windows are lead lined. Not sure why I decided to do that, but I did. I guess I'm happy I did. It's digital. The X-ray is digital. It won't take long to come up. They can manipulate the images. I don't think they'll move him. They shouldn't have to. It's on a telescoping arm. I built it myself." Tony repeated every thought that passed through his head.

The team stood side by side in the hall staring into the exam room while the lead-layered medical staff took over Clint's patient care. Someone draped a gown over Clint's lower half while another slipped the portable plate in behind his back. Clint simply did his best to remain calm while the world tumbled around him. The oxygen mask remained on his face, his eyes fixed on the five beings who watched him from the other side of the glass.

"How did this happen?" Steve asked.

"Mission." Tony supplied. "He didn't say where he was."

"Close enough to take a cab here." Bruce said.

"Why didn't he just call one of us? I was back from DC. Tony's been in all week, and you haven't even left the Tower yet. Why didn't he just ask one of us to go?"

"Clint's been a solo spy for a while. I doubt he knows how to ask." Bruce replied.

"So is Natasha, and the two spent half of last month together." Steve defended. He pushed off of the wall and paced away a few steps with his head hanging down.

"That might work fine for her, but Clint's been working cases alone since before Loki scrambled his brain." Bruce extended a hand toward Thor. "No offense."

Thor shrugged his broad shoulders. "None taken, I know very well the trouble my brother has caused and I feel the weight of that guilt every day. I am happy Barton has fared better than my friend Selvig, however."

Pepper looked around Tony to ask, "What happened to Dr. Selvig?"

"He had, I believe it is called, a breakdown of his nerves? I have not spoken to him in some weeks and the words he uses are peculiar to me. Nonsensical. They are keeping him watched very closely."

"They?"

Thor returned her look. "I believe he still resides in the hospital."

Bruce hadn't thought much about Selvig since the attack. He was familiar with the scientist's work before when he'd been in academia but most of Selvig's current research emerged one year ago, when Bruce spent the majority of his time in Calcutta. Since returning to his scientific research, he simply hadn't caught up on Selvig's work with the Foster Theory beyond the scope of the Avengers' mission in New York. Thinking of an illustrious scientist like him, who had at one time been a front runner for the Nobel Prize, reduced to a mental institution with a "breakdown of his nerves" only made Bruce more nervous for the man sitting across from them. Working alone, not reaching out, sleeping on a nest on the floor all did little to inspire confidence in Bruce that something more sinister wasn't brewing under Clint's calculated exterior. He felt a small tap on his leg and shared a private look with Tony. Apparently he was sensing the same.

"Barton's got to know that he can rely on us. He can't think that going out alone like that is a smart idea. How'd he describe the guy that did this too him?"

"He held a visage similar to myself." Thor recalled.

Steve slouched and folded his arms. It sounded completely ridiculous for Barton to take on a guy like that without any back up whatsoever. What good was having a team if they didn't actually do anything for one another?

"He's not going to want a lecture." Bruce warned. "He didn't even want me playing mother hen. He just wants to do his thing. I get where you're coming from Steve, but devil's advocate says he's going to buck you on this."

From the other side of the glass, Martinez waved them back in. Further discussion ended until they at least knew whether or not they'd have an archer for the foreseeable future. The sight of Clint's x-ray, though, challenged that notion precisely. Pepper didn't stop by the door this time. While the heroes all clustered around the radiology viewer she went to Clint's slide and placed her hand in his. It was still strapped to the bed rail in a large, padded cuff. No one thought releasing him was a good idea, even when she requested it.

" 's alright." He whispered, reclaiming her attention. "Used to it."

"You're used to being tied to beds?"

He smiled a little at the connotation she stuck into her voice. "Not trusted." He clarified. Before Pepper's curiosity could peak into a question he switched his attention to the cluster of men surrounding his scans. "What's the verdict, docs?"

Not bothering with words, Dr. Martinez grabbed the side of the mobile screen and turned it toward Hawkeye. The image was completely self-explanatory. He could see the outline of white bone on a plane of bluish/black swirls that stood in place of his lungs, heart, and diaphragm. Bisecting the lot of it was the stark white line of a dinner knife. Somehow it looked bigger as it was running through him then when the guy held it that morning. The faces of the men around him were grim.

"What's the plan?" Clint asked.

"Good question." Martinez said, folding his arms. "Right now, I don't have one. I'll be honest. I do have a surgical team prepped and ready in the next room in case what we do next gets bad. Radiographs are good to give us a broad picture, but if we really want an idea of how to help you, we need to try something else."

Pepper held Clint's hand a little tighter. Maybe it was really him squeezing onto her, but he wouldn't admit that to himself.

"What do you want me to do?"

"You have one job, Agent Barton. Don't panic. You panic, you get sedated, and that's not fun for any of us. Not in your case. We need a CT scan which we do have access to right up this hall. To get it, that means we have to lay you down."

"Move me?!" Clint growled. "Wasn't this whole thing about not moving me? Wasn't that the plan?"

Martinez nodded, allowing Clint to vent his frustration.

"We said this might happen." Bruce interrupted. "You can't sit up in a CT scan. We have to lay you down. If we skip this, we can anesthetize you, take you to surgery now, and see what we find, but to give you a better chance it would help us all out to know what we're dealing with."

Clint didn't like it, which was very obvious. Apparently he wasn't really getting an option either. He stopped flexing his arms and let his eyes close. If they were going to do this, he wanted to think as little about the process as possible. Martinez noted Clint's acquiescence and moved in before the archer decided to change his mind. The Avengers took their original positions again and Clint tried to remain untensed as half a dozen pairs of hands took him all at once. Bruce unshackled his left hand for Thor to manipulate better. Martinez called out the procedure as the nursing, paramedic, and surgical staff all stood to the side on standby. Pepper stayed by his still-cuffed right hand, determined not to be shuffled away.

One of the nurses dropped the head of the bed back, took Clint's blood stained pillow and dropped it to the floor. She grabbed the top handle on the expanding backboard and extended it the length of the bed. At first, Clint remained in his half reclined position with the help of Thor on his upper body, Steve on his lower half, and Bruce's hands cradling his head and neck. Dr. Martinez gave the signal and as one unit, each lowered Barton down. Clint himself was still shaking uncontrollably. Tony spread the blanket across him in hopes it might help. During that critical transition, no one breathed.

Halfway down Clint jolted like an electric shock ran through him. He hissed through his teeth causing the entire room to stop.

"Talk to us, Barton." Martinez commanded.

"Fine, it's fine." He groaned.

"I'm serious, is something wrong?"

"Cramp in my side."

"Which side?"

"Right."

Martinez moved closer and carefully palpated in the area Clint indicated. He felt a knot of unhappy muscle firing beneath his fingers. Not an uncommon finding for the archer who was about as stressed out as a cat in a room of barking dogs. Just beneath a few layer of skin and muscle, though, the knife was most likely shifting in the torn lung they knew it cut into. "That's ok. It's normal." He lied. At his direction the men continued to lower Barton in a controlled manner until for the first time in hours, Barton lay flat on his back. Clint pulled his hand out of Pepper's to grab the side of the bed rail instead. At least that he could wring without worrying about breaking it.

"Hurts." Barton gasped.

"The cramp or something else?"

"Else."

_His lung_, Martinez thought. The heart rate began to spike. Someone reset the blood pressure to get a better reading. If Clint suddenly began to bleed internally, that would be their best indication. The Avengers gave them room to work, even though they wanted more than anything to jump right back into the fray. After a few minutes of checks, double checks, and Clint's careful self-control, the mystery pain ebbed away. His blood pressure was stable. His heart rate dropped back down to normal, and he opened his eyes.

"Can we stop doing that?" he whispered.

Martinez rubbed his shoulder. "You're job's almost done. We're going to pack you up and wheel you up the hall. You're right and left hand are going up over your head so we can see your chest a little better. I'm locking you in again."

"Yes, sir."

The support staff packed up the monitors and equipment for the short trip up the hall. Bruce unshackled Clint's right arm and slowly lifted it up to join the left at the head of the bed. Clint didn't resist the peculiar treatment. Instead, he treated it like the status quo.

"How you holding up there?" Bruce asked, finishing with the last strap.

"Trying not to run away." Clint admitted.

"Hence," Bruce tapped the cuffs and smiled.

"I don't like doctors."

"I'm gathering that. It's good to know. So the next time you decide to walk home with a knife in your back, we'll skip the pleasantries and just strap you to a bed. I guess I should applaud you for staying in your room and not walking upstairs to dinner."

"I thought about it." Clint said.

"Dr. Banner, we're ready to go." Someone interrupted.

As a unit the Avengers filtered out into the hall again, made space, and watched Clint's bed disappear in the direction of the CT scan. The group huddle lasted all of four seconds before Tony headed off in the direction of Clint's bed.

"Tony, they aren't going to let you in." Banner warned.

"Like Hell! I bought the thing!" Stark shouted over his shoulder.

The others exchanged looks amongst themselves and eventually folded. The most interesting thing happening that night was most certainly not back upstairs where their cold dinner had been left abandoned. Besides, Clint needed them whether they were in the same room, or not. There was no doubting the absolute danger Barton found himself in. No one wanted to admit to the truth, but it was entirely possible the archer would not survive the night.

* * *

Another chapter done. another grind of feels to overcome. what will happen next?

Remember, if you do wanna have a gander at Clint's x-rays (radiographs:) or check out my other Clint projects, just find me on facebook.

Please remember to tap that little button down there to leave a comment!


	5. Chapter 5

Oh baby... This looks Bad.

Thank you to:::

AvengerOfFiction, musicmixer08, NorthernMage, Lillehafrue, BecauseImBatman108, Boooyakasha, Ms. Hawkeye, ELOSHAZZY, Hamato Alexa, icanhearthedrums, Qweb, discordchick, Batghost, YukinaKid, shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod, comicsans-spideydehaanfan

Selective scifi junkie (someone knows their medatomidine:)

TheNaggingCube (the author claims no responsibility for the injury of computer mice in the production of this epic)

WhoAteMyEnchilada (We're all mad here:)

iskaen (keeping characters IN character is a huge passion of mine. I love them just the way they are, and I'm so happy you do to!)

Niom Lamboise (sedatives...we shall see what happens with sedatives...)

* * *

**Friends Check for Bullet Wounds**

Chapter 7

The two-person radiology suite had been invaded by Tony, Bruce, Pepper, Dr. Martinez, the three trauma surgeons Jackson, Alex, and Diehl and lastly the hyper-muscular bodies of Thor and Steve not to mention the actual radiologist. They attempted to decrease the body count four times already but after a fight nearly broke out, Dr. Martin Field, their clinical radiologist, finally gave up.

Field explained, "From the scans, the 3D mock-up Mr. Stark provided, and my assessment, this is where Agent Barton stands right now. The knife sliced through his left epaxial muscles (the muscles of his back), nicked his colon, missed his stomach by maybe a quarter of an inch, entered his liver, transected his caudal vena cava (pretty much the aorta for veins), pierced his diaphragm, and entered his lung. The reason he suffered the pneumothorax is when he shifted at some point, the air was able to leak from his lung and became trapped in his chest cavity. The influx of blood I believe may be related to the vena cava. Now that the tube's in place we can keep that managed."

Tony held his hand up and the doctor stopped. "Can we go back for a second," Iron Man asked, "You know to that point when you said his aorta-vein was "transected". Then how is he even alive?"

For that, Field indicated the three dimensional model the doctors currently held in their hands. "According to our imaging, the blade sliced through about a quarter of the diameter of his vena cava. Currently, it's keeping that hole plugged like a cork in a bottle. The same thing is happening with his colon. He will definitely suffer peritonitis post op."

"I've just started him on an antibiotic drip. We don't want to start fluids just yet. We called over to NY General and we have eight or nine liters of blood in stock now with access to another ten. None of us want to start him on fluids yet. His blood pressure is stable, and increasing it at this point may cause him to bleed prior to surgery." Dr. Martinez told them.

"Is it safe for him to be here?" Steve asked. "Would it be better to move him to NYG?"

Every doctor in the room disagreed instantly.

"It's much too dangerous. Any way we try to take him out of this building is too high of a risk." Dr. Jackson said.

Bruce scrubbed his hand through his hair. This was just as horrible as he thought it might turn out to be. Clint needed not just abdominal surgery, he needed chest surgery. Both of those had to be performed concurrently, and there was still the problem of removing the ten inch knife sticking out of him. This wasn't going to be pretty at all.

"What odds are you giving him?" Bruce asked, much to the horror of his teammates. It was likely they'd all considered it, but having a raw number fact made the entire situation too real. Beside Banner, Tony looked around and found a place to sit. He was not going to take this standing.

"Are you looking for an honest answer?" Dr. Field asked. "I've never seen an injury like this beyond post-mortem. These patients just don't make it into the hospital. You said he was walking around with this thing, and I don't know how he did it. I don't know how you didn't find him deceased. What we are about to do is unprecedented. Dr. Jackson has worked three impalement cases during his career. Most doctors never see one. Dr. Diehl was a battlefield surgeon and was brought on specifically for his specialty working with IED victims." A few of the Avengers cut a glance toward Tony. This was his team after all, gathered for his own surgery. "Dr. Alex is a proficient cardiovascular surgeon who has worked aortic aneurisms and dissecting aortas on a monthly basis for the past ten years. Probably the best thing we have in our arsenal is Dr. Martinez. He's uniquely familiar with Agent Barton's idiosyncrasies as a patient. I will tell you, Barton is in no better hands anywhere than he is right here."

"You're taking him to surgery now?" Pepper asked.

Dr. Jackson nodded. "Immediately. We've delayed long enough."

"Can we talk to him first?"

Before Dr. Jackson could answer, Tony cut him off. "You aren't saying no, because I'm just going to go see him anyway."

Jackson back peddled his planned statement and sighed. "We're prepping him now. He's going to need to be sedated. I've been informed that when we begin the sedation, the room must be empty. Hospital personnel only. Dr. Martinez?"

Martinez nodded steadfastly. "Doctor-patient confidentiality. You can see him now, I've already explained everything we've just talked about to him. But the minute we start his surgical anesthesia, everyone clears out."

"Wouldn't he be more comfortable if we were there until he went to sleep?" Pepper asked.

"Unless he agrees to it, the answer is still no." He replied.

"I believe we can agree to this." Thor said, more to end the conversation. "Let us see our friend. He has a great trial ahead of him and I believe he may require our support."

The conference ended and the Avengers made their way to the next room where Clint had been transferred to his hospital bed. The stacks of equipment around his body only increased over time. Now he had a metal tree with three bags of fluids and the same amount of blood. His IV lines were hooked up and ready to flow, though nothing dripped in yet beside the antibiotics Martinez mentioned. A few of the nurses were adding monitors to his chest while others set out his induction instruments and unlocked his cuffs. Though he continued to shake, his procured blanket had been moved down to his naked waist. The rest of his clothes had been cut off and lay in a pile on the floor. Clint saw them enter from the corner of his eye.

"Natasha's not back?" He asked instantly, reaching over to yank his oxygen mask off.

"Not yet." Bruce replied, heading the group. "Clint, I think you should keep that on."

"It's cold," Clint panted. "Blowing air. Don't like it. Can I call her?"

"Of course you can." Pepper said. She laid her hand on Bruce's arm and pushed in beside him. Her cell phone withdrew from her pocket and she scanned for the number. She handed it over as the ringing appeared on the other end.

"We'll give you a second to talk to her alone."

Clint shook his head. "No, 's fine. Stay."

"Are you sure?"

Clint paused as Natasha's voice appeared. In clipped Russian she stated her inability to reach the phone and if it was Barton calling, she planned to call him back when he was dead. Before the words had been playful, created a year ago when Clint had accidentally rolled into a gunfight and fired an exploding arrow beneath her hide out. She'd paid him back with a fork in his ankle and a nasty voicemail. Natasha hadn't changed it since. Given his current predicament, the words were simply cold and foreboding. He spoke to the voice recording in Russian, a language he knew that the others didn't speak. When he finished, he pulled the phone away.

Pepper took it from him. "Was she there?"

"Voicemail." He explained.

"You speak Russian?"

"Yeah."

A knock came to the doorway. Dr. Martinez meant to hurry them along.

Pepper reached out and squeezed his hand. "Don't be scared. You're going to be fine. She's probably on her flight from Atlanta. We'll make sure she's here when you wake up. We'll be here too. You still owe me dinner."

Clint almost smiled again. "Yeah."

"Clint we're going to be standing by while you're in surgery. Is there anyone else you want us to call? SHIELD? Fury?" Bruce asked.

"No."

"Anything more for us than single syllables?" Tony asked. He stood by Clint's feet, listening in as the conversation progressed. He was slightly frustrated at Clint's utter lack of emotion. The guy could be dead in an hour, and he seemed completely passive to it all, besides wanting to get in touch with Natasha. The temporary panic that erupted before had smoothed over beneath his spy face and Tony didn't like it. It wasn't real.

The emotion he waited to see, exploded now.

"What do you want me to say?" Clint asked with heat in his voice. "Great? Can't wait to see if I live? See you on the other side if I don't? You want me to pour my heart out and ask you to find my estranged brother and tell him where to attend the funeral? No. I'm not saying that. You don't know crap about my life, Stark, and the things I'm trying to do to keep it all together. You don't even know what I just did for this team to end up here. I'm going to live through this stupid thing and when I do, I'm hunting down the guy that put me here and I'm giving him his knife back. _**That's** _what's happening."

"You will not get the opportunity. I will uncover this foe before you are allowed the chance." Thor told him. He tapped Steve in the chest, and the Captain agreed at once. Somehow he'd simply assumed that Clint had taken down the man who came against him. Hearing that wasn't the case surprised everyone.

"What's his name?" Steve demanded.

"He's mine." Clint growled.

"Name, or else I'm calling Fury and I'm getting it from him. So you might as well just tell me."

Clint's eyes cruised over the others and understood instantly this was another fight he wasn't winning. He was beginning to like this group think less and less. It seemed every decision he wanted to make was either over ruled or taken from him. "Slade. Elijah Slade."

"We'll see you when you're out." Steve told him. He squeezed Clint's shoulder once in that awe-inspiring Captain America way he had and with Thor on his heels the two disappeared together.

Clint watched them go, and refocused on Tony. "I'm now feeling a little sorry for Slade."

"You should. He's probably going to end up with four broken limbs because of this."

Dr. Martinez abandoned knocking, as they'd decided to actively ignore him. He came into the center of the room and claimed their attention. "Clint, I'm sorry, we've got to start knocking you down. Sedation has to go in. The big guns are scrubbing. We need to get this moving."

"Can we stay?" Pepper asked instantly. She refused to relinquish her hold on Clint's hand, and surprisingly enough he held her tighter too.

Martinez noticed the surprise as well. "Barton, you realize you aren't tied down?"

"Nurse forgot." He replied.

"And you didn't remind them?" Clint didn't reply, but the answer was easy to see. "This is on you. You want them to stay, they can stay, but it has to be your decision. Your sedation is starting in twenty seconds."

Clint considered it. A small measure of dread flooded across his face. He wanted to say no. He wanted to do this alone, like he always did. He didn't need anyone to see the person he became when that sedation hit home like a bucket of alcohol. Martinez met that version of the agent almost four times now. He wasn't silent as a tomb when it came to revealing the details of Clint's difficult past. Having that level of trust was both foreign, and satisfying.

"Where'd Tony find you?" Clint asked, he wasn't sure why.

"I applied through SHIELD. Director Fury told me about the position. Clint, make a decision." Martinez picked up Clint's removed oxygen mask and replaced it over the Avenger's face. The last time they met was actually on the Helicarrier. He'd checked Clint over for a concussion after Natasha dragged him into the infirmary. He slipped the restraint cuffs on him there too. It was simply how SHIELD handled things with him. They tried talking him through it first those years ago, but nothing seemed to work. Management, not correction, was how they handled his fears.

"They can stay. I think." Barton said.

Martinez leaned forward and hit a button on one of the new machines stacked around the hospital bed. Something infused into the liquid IV line in the back of Clint's hand. "Ok, then. You know the drill. You're going to start feeling woozy. Try and remember not to move. I know that's going to be hard. Everyone here is meant to help you. We are not here to hurt you." The doctor turned to look at the three others while his hands deftly worked to tie Clint's wrists again. But he didn't stop there, two ankle straps came next, followed by full leg ones and a last he considered fixing to Clint's chest, but thought better of it. "What we're giving him will make him drowsy, drunk almost. It helps him process the anesthesia better. He tends to fight it, so keep talking to him."

"How long does it take?" Pepper asked, disturbed by it all. She looked down when she felt Clint's grip slacken in hers. His pupils were slowly beginning to widen and she had her answer. "That was fast."

"Clint, I want you to tell me your name and the color of Dr. Banner's shirt. Can you do that for me?" Martinez asked. At first, Clint responded appropriately. Then, very quickly, he deteriorated.

"No, don't, no. I won't—I'm not—" Clint's head fell to the side as suddenly he went from the world's most mono-syllable patient to a complete nervous breakdown. His slack grip flexed. He pulled against the shackles and before he had a chance to break Pepper's hand, Tony pulled her away. Rather forcefully he took over her position and clamped both of his hands around Clint's, braving the archer's bone-crushing struggle. "Stop! Stop, I won't! I'm not! Can't break!"

"What's going on? He shouldn't be acting this way." Bruce kept his voice flat, but the strain on his face was as evident as Clint's descent into mental hellfire. He thought about Selvig, about how Barton had been cleared by the SHIELD psychologists and how maybe the Avenger's team was being played. He'd done a residency during his medical degree at various institutions. He'd seen patients undergo pre-anesthesia and this was not like them. If the straps weren't working to keep Clint flat, it was very likely the archer would have leaped out of bed and stormed off in a psychosis induced state.

"Agent Barton is merely reacting to previous stimuli. It's common for his case. Actually, right now it's mild."

"Mild?!"

Clint's arm bucked back, it took everything Tony had to keep him from jerking too much. He rammed his elbows into the mattress and attempted to sit up, but Banner, Martinez, and Pepper all fell forward to hold him down. The doctor shouted for the anesthetic to get pumped in and the anesthesiologist set about to do just that.

"Clint, stop fighting." Tony said to him while the team finished with his drug cocktail. "You're going to surgery and we'll see you right after, got it?"

A swift moment of lucidity returned. Clint's dilated, drug swamped eyes cut through Stark's. "You better kill—me," the archer whispered. "You can't let me live. If you do . . . if you'd do . . . I'm going to find you. Kill you."

"You won't need to do that." Stark told him.

"You won't break me." Clint whispered as his eyes began to fall closed.

"We don't want to."

Clint jerked once more, and finally he dropped into unconsciousness.

:(:):(:):

Tony leaned against the wall across from his glass-lined surgical suite. Clint lay on the table inside, covered under massive blue drapes, three surgeons, countless support staff, and nearly every surgical monitor Tony bought or invented. It looked like they were doing surgery on sheets until the odd instrument floated by coated in Clint's blood. They'd run through their first bag of blood and were working to pump in the second. The anesthetist had gone bone white.

"PTSD, that's what you're describing."

"Agent Barton has been on many high profile missions in the past. One in particular has caused us to be more cautious when it comes to his patient care." Martinez replied.

Tony filtered through the conversation sailing between Dr. Martinez and Bruce. The three had felt utterly unprepared for the results when they asked to stay at Clint's side until he was brought under anesthesia. Understanding the root of his behavior would help them come to terms with what sort of recovery they might expect. Slightly traumatized by it all, Pepper decided to avoid actively watching the surgery and returned upstairs to try and fix Natasha's location. It took an hour of breaking down Martinez's doctor-patient confidentiality before they finally started making some headway.

"So, he was tortured in a hospital." Tony interrupted with his guess. He glanced over to see how the words struck the doctor. "You didn't tell me you had history with him when I hired you."

"I've been a field surgeon with SHIELD for multiple missions. We call Barton a frequent flier for a reason."

"He endangers himself." Bruce asked.

"He's a man doing missions against monsters." Martinez elaborated. He swept a hand toward the glass. "Case in point. It would be easier on everyone if he handled hospital settings better, but under the circumstances, I think that was the calmest he's ever gone down."

Bruce's eyebrows raised. "_That_ was calm? That was controlled chaos. It's no wonder he hates it. I would to!"

"Bruce." Tony said warningly. The doctor's tone had altered just enough for him to be concerned. Bruce, despite never suffering a Hulk out in the Tower, was dangerously close to the edge now. Banner recognized Tony's meaning and took a few steps back to clear his head again. While he worked on finding his inner Zen, Tony took on Martinez. "What happened to him? Don't start feeding me lines, either, you've been dancing around this issue enough. Clint's a member of this team. We need to know everything we can if we are going to be able to trust him and rely on him. Besides that, if we did end up med flighting him and no one knew to strap him down, he could have just jumped himself off a table and died."

"It was never SHIELD's intent to have him be a danger to himself."

"Good for you. Tell me."

Martinez hesitated a little longer. Whatever final wall he'd built up on a false sense of patient security, or SHIELD duty finally broke. The story that came out of him was increasingly hard to swallow.

Before joining SHIELD full-time Clint was completing his field assessment under Coulson's guidance. At nineteen he'd already completed forty-three high profile missions as the primary agent and it wasn't until his final assessment that crap hit the fan. Clint was discharged on a mission to a classified location. The purpose was a snatch and grab, sneak in, find the target, and take the individual into SHIELD custody. Three seasoned agents went in as back up and observation. Apparently, their intel was swamped in misinformation and blatant lies. The team was ambushed, two agents killed outright and the remaining two taken into enemy custody.

"We found Barton three countries away in the basement of a hospital. He'd been out of SHIELD contact for fifty-three days. We found half of Agent Tomslin at the US embassy for that country. The other half was still handcuffed to Barton."

"Oh my God." Bruce shook his head at the horrific mental image.

Martinez shrugged. "What happened to Barton I'm not privy to. It's sealed in his files. What I do know is the results. He's stable, don't get me wrong. He's passed every mental exam we've ever given him. He just has hospital-related idiosyncrasies that we work around. He gets strapped down because if he gets confused, he might act out. He's a trained weapon, that's what happens sometimes with agents. Sedation, mood altering drugs, heavy alcohol burden all can trigger past events. Agent Barton doesn't take drugs, and he stays away from alcohol. He's managed."

"Would have been nice to have a heads up." Tony growled, cursing under his breath.

"Barton has never allowed this to affect his work in anyway." Martinez tried to defend.

"That's not the point." Tony shot back. "The point is our teammate's lying in there with a knife in him and we got to sit next to him with our thumbs up our—"

"Tony." Bruce cut him off.

"He's an Avenger now. He's our problem. I told Fury no secrets and here he lays this on us and what? Did he just hope we'd never have to deal with it?"

"If you think Agent Barton isn't qualified to—"

Tony took a few steps toward the field doctor, prompting Bruce to cut him off and hold him back. "After telling us something like that you think I'd let him go back to SHIELD? He's not ok. He's not managed. You might think handling a guy by strapping him to a bed and never sedating him isn't cruel, but I've got news for you. You're crazy. SHIELD just hung him out to dry on this case! He wouldn't be on that table now if Fury didn't give him back up or tell his own team what was going on! I'm sure you've got to report to the one-eyed jackal, so how about you run and do that. Tell him Clint's not moving back. In fact, he's moving in permanently. I'm even going to buy him a bed and plug in his stove."

"Mr. Stark—"

Bruce looked at him and in no few terms told the physician to take a hike. Tony's aggression wasn't exactly directed at the man, he just happened to be in the firing line at the time. Thor and Steve might be able to busy themselves hunting down this Slade character, but the others did not. Someone had to stay behind. Until they knew a little more, sending in Iron Man and the Hulk would have been a show of excessive force.

There was a fluster of movement on their left. Tony pulled out of Bruce's hands and pressed against the glass. They watched in abject horror as a shot of blood ejected from Clint's open wound to splatter the surgeons wrist deep in his abdomen. Behind the glass, they could hear the scream of monitors as Clint edged closer and closer to death.

* * *

what? WHAT? What is this mysterious history? How are the Avengers planning to help? Will Clint live? Stay tuned!

(I'm actually a 3rd year veterinary student, studying for my finals before I begin the 4th year clinical rotations this June. So all medical references are derived from my personal experiences in ER settings (but...uh...with animals...) and intense online research into the adaptation to human med. And, maybe, a few episodes of Life in the ER and Grey's Anatomy.)

Please keep reviewing! Let's break that 100 mark:)


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you to:::

BoomerCat, natashgriz, Lillehafrue, Daughter of the North, Batghost, DatNatCatThoe, Bellanca, All the Guests, Ms. Hawkeye, shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod, khaitosfren, a fanfictioner, Jazzysauce, Akane Izo, NorthernMage, TheNaggingCube, Qweb, Hamato Alexa, discordchick, YukinaKid, BecauseImBatman108, comicsans-spideydehaanfan, WhoAteMyEnchilada, JRBarton, Fury-Natalia

MC (Its finished at last!)

Invisible Observer (watching as you read through all of my Hawkeye Initiative has brought me the keenest of delights. I often look ahead to see where you are going next and gasp when I realize how close you are to "Where the Worlds Burn.)

ELOSHAZZY (I think you already read "Where the Worlds Burn", but I'm not positive. Any who, the epilogue for that sheds considerable light over my take on Clint's history. Want a good cry h/c? I'd tackle that:)

* * *

**Friends Check for Bullet Wounds**

Chapter 6

Bruce wasn't wearing any shoes. He didn't notice until he spent the first six hours banished from the surgery suite. At first he stood for a while, watching the slow, meticulous, work of the experts as they traveled downward through Barton's skin, muscles, and bone to deal with his chest injury. He had to turn away when the decided to crack one of his ribs. After a time of standing, shifting from foot to foot, he finally sat with his arms cocked over his knees. Tony eventually sank down beside him.

"So you're a black-sock guy." Tony remarked. It had been seven hours now since they'd said a word to each other.

Bruce looked down at his feet. "I'm whatever's cheap and comes in a Hanes multi-pack."

Tony snickered.

"For practical reasons." Bruce elaborated, though he didn't need to.

"Never thought you hit the shoes-off stage for walking around the Tower. Is this, dare-say, homey now?"

Bruce considered that for a while. Another monitor in the next room was sounding its alarm, followed promptly by three others. Clint was fighting for his life again. It was a struggle they could not help him with. Neither wanted to stand up this time to watch the flurry of movement where the doctors tried to save him one more time.

"Clint's room." Bruce said.

Tony looked up from his lap. "What about it?"

"My shoes are in his room."

Tony chewed on that notion for a while, but for the life of him he could determine why Bruce would have done that. "Ok, you've got me. Are you and Clint like a thing? You hold my toothbrush, I keep your shoes?"

Bruce elbowed him. "When I went down to find him, I wasn't expecting to find a guy with a knife in his back sitting on a couch. He leaves his boots by the door, so I wanted to leave my shoes by the door. I don't know him that well, I didn't want to insult him."

"I don't think any of us know him very well. He sleeps on the floor."

"I did see that."

"I don't know why. I've given him a credit card and told him to go wild. You know what the biggest thing he bought was?"

Bruce smiled a little and looked over. "A couch?"

"No. I don't know where he got that. I don't know how he got it in there either. He bought shoes. New combat boots. That's it." He leaned back against the wall and rubbed his eyes. To put it bluntly, Clint wasn't really living at the Tower at all. He might leave his stuff there and sleep on the floor once in a while, but that was it. "Living" constituted growing roots, getting a plant, or at the very least buying a bed. Clint Barton did none of that.

"Maybe he doesn't like cooking." Bruce wondered.

"Well that was random." Tony said.

"Sorry, I must have been thinking out loud. His kitchen doesn't have any of the appliances plugged in. I don't think the fridge was even running. Where does he eat? Have you ever seen him in the cabinets upstairs?"

Tony considered that for a while and confessed that he hadn't. Across from them the flurry of sounds, alarms, and movement by the windows settled again. Clint must have decided to keep fighting and normalized his stats. If there was one thing about him they knew for sure, Barton was tenacious to a fault.

"I should get my shoes." Bruce said without moving.

"Yeah you should. Come on, let's get them now before he wakes up and refuses to let us in his place." Tony said, shifting to his feet. He extended a hand to Banner, helping the doctor up. They sent a withering look at the surgeons. The medical waste bin was getting fuller with the bags of discarded blood products they sent ripping into the archer at full blast. Tony tugged Bruce's arm again and they headed off together. Neither wanted to be away for too long. They knew the surgery would take hours and most likely stretch through the remainder of the night. Already well past midnight, they saw no sign of the knife attempting to be extracted. There was a considerable amount of other damage to correct first.

They arrived at Clint's bedroom door without bothering to speak along the way. Standing just in the hallway was enough to pull them up short. For one, no one had bothered to shut it behind them. Clint never left his door open. Seeing the gaping entry only served as a painful reminder that their archer might never come back to shut it himself. Bruce moved inside a little, picked up his shoes, and retreated back to the hall to slip them on.

"This is ridiculous." Tony said, marching straight inside. Bruce stumbled in after him.

"Tony, I don't think we should just—"

"Why not?" Stark cut him off. "I own the place. I want to know what he's doing in here. If anything."

"I think he still prefers to have at least some privacy, though." Bruce continued, though he found himself cruising right in behind Tony. They reached the kitchen first and the two of them turned in surprise to see Pepper Potts standing against the counter with a pan in one hand and a plug in the other. Her strawberry red hair was done up in a bandana and she'd changed into her pajamas at some point.

"I wasn't snooping." She said instantly.

Tony gave her a soft smile. "I thought you were in bed."

"Bed!" She exclaimed. "How could I possibly sleep? Agent Barton's down there in your weird surgery thing and all I can think of is what if it wasn't him? What if it was you? What's going to happen when you decide to pull that thing out of your chest and—" The more she escalated the harder the tears flowed down her cheeks. Tony rushed toward her and pulled her against his chest. She cried against him, bitter unforgiving tears.

Bruce tried to find something in him to say that might serve as both comforting and inspirational. He came up completely empty. He often served as Tony's sounding board regardless of his profession as not "that" kind of doctor. This was a moment for the two to hash out alone.

Turning around in the room to try and find a different point of focus, Bruce noticed something he hadn't before. Stacked in a corner by the wall of windows was a tower of paint cans and other supplies. Two used rollers resided in a tray of dried paint the same color as the walls. Somehow he'd just assumed everything in the room had been done by Tony's staff. This, though, made it seem like Clint himself had taken on the home improvement projects. With his eyes opened to the strange possibility, Bruce looked around for more confirmations to his idea. The kitchen wasn't quite finished. A strip of the checkered tile had been pulled up, or was readying to be pasted down, just a few feet from where Tony and Pepper stood. A few trial paint smears coated the backsplash along with three or four squares of glass tile. Having no plugged-in apliances suddenly made a lot more sense. There was a stack beside the sofa of various magazines, including the old Ikea one Clint had made off with over a month ago. Some pages were doggy-eared, or marked with hand writing. Beneath that was a pad and paper of layouts, schematics, and ideas Clint had drawn himself. Bruce felt a little wrack of guilt after yanking the plans free and cruising through them, but it wasn't enough to make him stop.

"He's fixing up the place." Bruce said.

Tony and Pepper looked over. She'd begun to dry her tears on his shirt.

"What did you say?" Tony asked.

Bruce held up the plans. "Clint. He's not just living out of a home-made sleeping bag. He's fixing up the place. The way he wants it, I mean. Tony, check these out."

Curious, Stark came over with Pepper following beside. He took the graph pad Bruce offered to him while the doctor continued to scan through the design magazine. He found the current wall color on one page, circled alongside three others Clint apparently liked. One had the word "den" written beside it while the other had "bathroom", "kitchen" or "bedroom". Half a book later, the different flooring options were listed. Clint circled the checkered pattern, which he currently had installed, but apparently wasn't crazy about his choice. He had sent away a request for two other samples a week ago, right before he'd left for his latest mission.

"A functional man's bachelor pad with the gravitas of unlimited cash. Not too snooty, but with enough elegance to be perceived as well off." Tony flipped through the carefully designed plans.

"So he's the anti-Stark?" Pepper asked, a little mirth returning to her voice. She sniffed again, banishing the wetness from her face with the palm of her hand.

"Must have taken him weeks to draw these up." Tony remarked, too focused on the designs to notice her jab.

"Makes sense why it looks like no one lives here." Bruce replied. Finding a particularly clever note on the side of an Ikea catalogue, he turned the book around for Pepper to take. There was a feature highlighting a cheerfully yellow chair with a fleur-de-lis design in white pressed between two repurposed wood crates against an eggplant wall. Beside it, Clint wrote _"Pepper will like this"_.

Pepper's face crumbled together she snatched the book, reading Clint's annotation four, then five times before she could bring herself to breathe again. "That's the color I picked out for him. I thought, maybe, he just didn't like it."

Tony hit the last page of Clint's design book, encountering a totally new purpose for the walk-in closet. Clint wanted to create a false wall, or safe hideaway in the back as a weapons' vault. The technical skill he showed in the planned dimensions and execution really was masterful. "You know, we can help him with—"

"No!" Bruce cut him off in an instant.

Tony's head snapped up, a look of hurt in his eyes. He was a fabricator with an entire book of ideas waiting for inventing and Bruce squashed all of that in a single word. "What? Why not?!"

"Because this is Clint's project and he didn't ask for help." Bruce played tug-o-war with Clint's design book but eventually managed to take it away from Tony. He rearranged them beside Clint's couch again in what he hoped was the same order as before. "He wants to do it himself. When he wakes up, we can ask if he needs some extra hands, but he is NOT waking up to Tony Stark's Extreme Home Makeover. What would you say if one day I redesigned your work space?"

Tony folded his arms. "I would be appreciative."

"Liar. You'd yell, stomp around, and for three months all I'd hear is how you can't find anything."

Pepper angled a little more beside Bruce. "You, know, I agree with him on that."

"Who's side are you on?!" Tony exclaimed.

"Right now, Barton's. Tony, you aren't messing this up for him. Maybe he needs to redo the place. That could be the way he copes. I don't say anything about your need to make forty thousand suits in our basement."

"I do not make forty-thousand suits in the basement, I made thirty-nine. And it's not the basement."

"The point is—"

Bruce stepped between them. "The point is, guys, that all of us came here to snoop on our teammate because he's down there fighting for his life on a surgery table. We feel guilty because we're only finding all of this now and as a team, we should have tried a little harder to know Clint better. I know I was shocked when I went in there and found my roommate was sleeping on the floor. He has a duffle bag of clothes to his name, a drawer full of medical supplies, and a couch. That's all he owns. Until he wants more, the best way we can help him is be supportive."

Tony wanted to fight him on that point, but even Pepper, who'd come down to plug in all the electronics and fill the fridge with food she planned to order, pulled off her bandana and shed her yellow rubber gloves. With nothing further to accomplish besides invading his life more, the three headed for the door. Pepper still didn't want to see the surgery, understandably, and returned to the Glass Castle instead to wait for news. No one had yet heard from Steve, Thor, or even the missing Natasha.

Bruce and Tony returned to the medical wing. They wanted to be there when Clint finally woke up. Neither risked admitting to themselves that Barton might never survive at all.

* * *

Soooooooo when I wanted to break the 100 mark, i had no idea y'all would take me to 112. You guys are so Awesome.

I like to give shout-outs when they are well worth it and today this person is the MVP. BoomerCat, if you have not had the opportunity to read this writer's story about Clint's Christmas at the Avengers Tower...you should. I did and I have to say it was one of the most delightful reads i have ever enjoyed.

Keep reviewing my friends. And thank you for your loyalty. I had no idea this book would be so popular. Natasha will arrive in the next chapter I think...


	7. Chapter 7

_**a/n: This chapter is LONG. I do not apologize. I didn't even mean to write it but y'all wanted to know OOOOOH so much about Slade so I felt compelled to add an extra 6,000 words this morning. I'm not cutting it in two, so take this blame upon your own mortal souls. (oh, and enjoy:)**_

Thank you to:::

YukinaKid, TheNaggingCub, BoomerCat, aps80, shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod, Ms. Hawkeye, Hamato Alexa, Batghost, Fire tests Gold, ZafiraMente, BecauseImBatman108, horsequeen1379, discordchick, a fanfictioner, Niom Lamboise, WhoAteMyEnchilada, ozhawk, Lillehafrue

IWriteSinsOrTragedies (slow clap, i loved that so much!)

amy. .(aw, thank you!)

Daughter of the North (thank you so much for the compliment on the writing style!)

khaitosfren (what a wonderful complement! thank you!)

comicsans-spideydehaanfan (I saw someone's diving into the Hawkeye Initiative! Happy reading!)

* * *

**Friends Check for Bullet Wounds**

Chapter 7

Stepping into this new found role was like wading out onto a plank over shark infested waters. One false move, and Bruce might end up dead. Then again, sitting at Clint's bedside watching him recover from anesthesia was a measure less dangerous than what Barton himself had just experienced. The result of that lay on the table just to his left. Clint had the dimensions dead on. Ten inches of cold steel on a saw edged blade had been plucked out of his flesh. It took fourteen hours to remove, his entire blood volume had been replaced twice, and an incision literally cut him open from stem to stern. His damaged lung was salvaged. His liver became a patchwork of carefully woven together thread, along with his vena cava. That had been the trickiest part. His incised bowel was flushed, sutured, flushed again, and sutured a second time. His entire abdomen was filled with saline like a rinse cycle of a washing machine in hopes that the very deadly complication of peritonitis might not set in. He died twice, received cardiac massage the first time since they had his chest filleted open anyway, and went straight to chest compressions the second time.

He was lucky to be alive.

It seemed Barton had an endless supply of luck. When the nurses wheeled him back to the recovery room, it was with a grim sort of determination. If Clint didn't pull through after all they'd done to him, they were definitely going to take it personally. Four of them flanked the head of the bed in nervous anticipation. Apparently there was a mass discussion before they returned Barton to the Avenger's care as to whether he would be allowed to wake at all. Keeping him under heavy sedation and the respiratory assistance of the ventilators, at least for the first few days, might give him a better opportunity to heal. Apparently they had about as much experience with his coming out of anesthesia as him going under. Neither were particularly pretty sights. His odds of surviving the surgery, the post-surgical complications, and the potential peritonitis from his nicked bowel were small. Allowing him to fight and fidget was counterproductive. In the end, though they decided to wake him up. Tony's insistence that if Clint Barton was going to die, he was going to do it knowing his friends were flanking his bedside, might have had the most impact in that decision.

"He has to stay strapped now too, right?" Bruce asked, motioning to Clint's seemingly ever-present cuffs. One of the technicians nodded. "When is it usually safe to start taking them off him?"

"After he's conscious. If Agent Romanov comes, usually that helps. She tends to relax him. If not, then our best option is to wait until he's discharged."

Tony grunted a little. How someone could find Natasha's cold, sarcastic exterior comforting, he wasn't sure. How Clint ever got to agree that letting someone literally tie him up every time he went into a hospital room was also beyond his comprehension.

"Have we heard from her yet?" Bruce asked.

Tony shook his head a little. He was exhausted. They'd spent the entire night pacing the halls, drinking coffee, and not talking. Bruce hadn't checked a mirror yet, but he had no doubt his eyes held the same dark circles he noticed under Tony's. "I tracked her passport. She boarded the plane in Atlanta hours ago. I'm not sure why she isn't back yet."

Bruce checked his watch. "It's rush hour from LaGuardia here. Maybe she got stuck."

Tony rubbed his eyes and sat back a little from Clint's side. "Rush hour? What time is it?"

"It's almost nine in the morning."

"We were up all night?"

"It's not weird for us."

"Nothing from Thor or Steve?"

Bruce shrugged. They left around the same time Natasha boarded her plane. When this was over, Bruce planned to have a lengthy conversation about answering cell phones. "Nothing."

"I'm thinking one of us should go look into where all of them are if no one shows up in another hour."

"Worried they hit trouble?"

Tony only had to motion to the knife. Clint wasn't just good at his job, he was the best. Whoever this Elijah Slade was, he packed a wallop. Bruce had to concede the possibility that Thor and Steve might have walked into a situation they couldn't handle alone. The possibility was incredibly small, but it did exist nonetheless.

There was a clang of metal on metal as Clint swiftly jerked his arm against the shackles. Bruce and Tony both jumped at the sound. Clint yanked his arm back until the catheter in his hand pinched against the cuff and threatened to sheer right off. Tony jumped on Clint's hand and tightened the shackle a little more before he slipped right out of it. Bruce repeated the measure on the opposite side.

"What happens now? Should we do something? What are we supposed to say?" Bruce asked.

Clint wrapped his fingers around the handrail. If he'd been given the strength of Thor, he might have ripped the entire thing off. A guttural snarl rumbled in the back of his throat. He thrust his leg out, twisted in place and threatened to weasel right out of those locks next.

"Stop!" Clint tried to scream. His voice was hoarse from the tube they'd pulled from his throat. The sweet odor of anesthesia he exhaled mingled with the oxygen flowing through his mask. He thrust his head against the pillow. "Lemme go. Lemme go. Tomslin—don't hurt him. Stop hurting him! No!" Clint yanked his hands back and screamed again.

"He's too rough, we're going to have to put him out again." One of the technicians said. He pulled out the locked drug cart and rifled through it for Clint's already drawn emergency dose.

Bruce tried to stop him. "Hang on! He'll be just as crazy with that in him, it'll make him worse before he gets better."

Tony let go of Barton's arms and focused on his face instead. He set his hands along Barton's jaw and tried to talk some sense into him. "Clint, listen to me. This is Tony. We've got you in the Tower. It's ok! I need you to—"

Clint shifted, trying to bite his hand, but Tony avoided it.

"Don't you dare snap my fingers off, Legolas! I'm trying to help you here! It's Tony!"

"Quietly." Bruce cautioned him. He left Barton's side for a minute to snap off the lights before returning again. If Clint knew so many of the relaxation techniques he'd learned himself, maybe those would filter through his current terror. Leaving Tony where he was, Bruce laid his hand gently on Barton's chest.

"Agent Barton, this is Dr. Bruce Banner," he whispered, keeping his voice level and calm despite Clint's continued struggle against him. "Agent Barton, I need you to take two, slow, steady breaths for me. We found you. You've been away for a long time, and we have you back now. If you can hear me I need you to take two, slow, steady, breaths. Can you do that, Agent Barton?"

Slowly, Clint stopped fighting. Tony looked encouragingly at his friend.

"Agent Barton, I need two, slow—"

Clint took his first breath. It wasn't very deep, but it was much varied from those he had before. He opened his eyes a little, but they didn't seem to focus on anyone in particular. The technicians paused, drugs in hand, should the situation begin to escalate. Barton took another, slower, breath.

"Good. Agent Barton, you are back in SHIELD hands. I understand you have endured a great deal. I would like to take off these hand cuffs. I don't think you need them. If you are with me, I need you to ask me to remove these handcuffs."

Clint took another deep breath and pulled again on his right hand. He appeared to be working out exactly what was being asked of him. They could blame his slight delays on being only minutes out of anesthesia.

"Ma—mask. Want my mask off." Clint asked much quieter than before.

"That'll come off next. First can you ask me to take off your handcuffs?"

Clint thought about it. When the filter between hearing, brain process, recognition, and articulation finally came into a single alignment, Barton spoke. "Dr. Banner, can you remove my cuffs?"

Bruce nodded at Tony who set to it. He started at the less dangerous end, Clint's legs. After those came off and Barton made no move to go running from the room, or even worse, scissor Tony's neck between his thighs and twist his head off, he moved up to Barton's wrists.

"You're doing very good, Agent Barton." Bruce continued. "I'm sorry this took a little while, but you're in good hands. The person helping me is Tony Stark. Do you recognize him?"

Tony looked up from his work and offered a smile.

"Tony . . . Yeah, Tony." Clint closed his eyes and shook his head a little. They opened again and refocused with clarity. "Bruce? Tony? What are you doing? Where am I?" His first hand was free. He lifted it up to pull the oxygen mask down.

At the head of the bed, the surprised technicians replaced the drugs into the lock box and stepped away to see what might happen next. It was obvious that what transpired now was unprecedented in Clint's typical recoveries. That fact alone made Banner's skin crawl. It wasn't rocket science. He wasn't even a psychologist and he could tell Clint needed to find his center again. Sometimes for SHIELD it was easier to contain, to stop, and to sedate rather than to fix.

Tony finished with the last cuff and set his hands down on the bed railing. "Hey, birdman. How you feeling? Besides having a broken rib and organs tacked together like a pin cushion."

"Rib? Organs? What?" Clint asked in confusion. He rubbed a hand across his chest and winced at the pain he felt there.

"Agent Barton—"

"Stop with that agent crap." Clint complained. "I'm not an agent since Fury kicked me out."

Bruce smiled. "Alright. No doctor/patient bull crap, no agent crap. Is there any other types of crap that you detest?"

Clint's eyes narrowed. "Gimme a minute, I'll think of something."

Bruce chuckled.

"Seriously what am I doing here? And why does everything hurt?"

"You were in a knife fight yesterday with Elijah Slade. You lost. He stuck you good. Took fourteen hours, but we finally got it out."

Clint tried to keep his eyes forced open, but they felt very heavy. He pushed himself up a little in the bed. Tony's hand remained on him to prevent his overdoing it. There was little he could do to stop from yawning against his pillow. Exhaustion crept up on him. "Elijah Slade?"

"That's what you told us before you went out. Who is he?"

Clint moaned a little, willing his memory to start firing on all cylinders. "Who?"

"Slade, Clint. Who is he? How did you end up on his cutting board?"

"Slade? Name's not Slade." Clint yawned again. The excitement of coming awake paled under his body's need to drag him right back under the warm flow of pain medication dripping into his veins.

"What do you mean, "his name isn't Slade"? Clint, that's who you told us did this to you!" Tony's voice elevated in his shock.

"It is . . . 'nd it's not." Clint scrunched his face and finally forced his blue eyes out from under their shades. They attempted to focus on Tony, but their haze made it evident he wasn't all there. "Slade?"

Tony rolled his eyes skyward in exasperation. Bruce took over for him. "Clint, before you went into surgery you told us that a man by the name of Elijah Slade stabbed you, then got away. It's really important you tell us the truth right now, because Thor and Captain America are out there tracking this guy down."

Clint didn't respond for a few minutes. Apparently he'd either dropped unconscious or fallen asleep with his eyes open. He came around again and began to speak again as if he never stopped. "Slade . . .The Asgardian, Slade?"

Bruce and Tony exchanged a furtive glance. Bruce asked, "Asgardian? What do you mean Asgardian?"

Clint only nodded as he tried to roll more onto his side. "Slade's a fake name. He's Balfore the Surmounter, some other-realm transplant. Called Thor out. Fury didn't want a . . . I didn't want a . . . a scene."

Tony considered sitting before the news knocked him right over. "Fury sent you in against an Asgardian warrior and didn't say a word about it to any of us?!"

"I'm kinda tired here, guys." Clint whispered.

Tony wanted to question him more, but Bruce extended a hand and stopped him. Clint didn't need an interrogation. He needed rest, and plenty of it. While the archer tucked himself in for the long haul, Bruce pulled Tony back into the hallway to talk in private. He shut the door behind them.

"I really think we should get a hold of Thor and Steve, don't you?" Bruce said.

"Yeah, you think? Clint said the guy looked like Thor, he didn't say the guy _was_ an Asgardian. Why the Hell did Fury send him in without back up?" Tony demanded.

Bruce shook his head. It was ridiculous to think that Clint had taken the guy on himself. No wonder he came back looking like he did. It was a wonder he made it home at all. "I don't know that."

"I do."

Tony and Bruce turned in place to meet the voice at their backs. Thor and Steve had returned, with Natasha Romanov in tow no less. From the looks of them, they must have found Balfore the Surmounter. Natasha's face was bleeding. Steve only had half of a shirt and the skin that was exposed had turned into fist-sized purple bruises. Thor had a broken nose and Steve was helping him keep off a possibly broken knee cap. Tony's jaw dropped.

"What happened?!" He exclaimed.

"We have been matched against a valiant foe. A criminal of Asgard banished from our lands more than four centuries before. He blamed my father for his ill events, and sought his vengeance against me." Thor explained. They stopped a few feet apart and looked into the dark hospital room at Clint on the bed. "Is our friend well?" he asked tenderly.

"It'll be a while before we know for certain. He's not out of the woods." Bruce reported. "If Balfore was after you, then what did Clint think he was doing?"

"Defending me, it seems." Thor said.

Steve took up the story from there. "Clint heard scuttlebutt about this guy on the SHIELD lines. Heard that Fury was hoping to make contact and add him to the index. Thing is, all the guy wanted was a grudge match with Thor in the most public way possible. So Clint went in himself. Took him a few days to find Balfore, but when he did he was working to get him out of the city. He planned to call us after they got clear of the public only they never made it that far. Fury's contact team showed up and got in the way. Clint got most of the agents out, one of them took a direct hit from this guy and ended up with a busted spine."

Bruce's gaze floated back to that darkened form tucked under the cold hospital sheets as Natasha took up the rest of the tale of Clint's epic adventure.

* * *

_:(:):(:):_

_Clint kept the note tucked against his chest in hopes that he wouldn't need to use it. After all, his initial mission was recon only. Check out the crazy guy wondering around the streets of New York, decimating every image of Thor the populace had erected, and assess a threat level. He was appreciative of having a mission within the limits of his home state for once. The chances of that were so rare, he often lived out of his duffle bag from pure necessity. Today that trusty pack got to take a break and stay in his apartment._

_Adding to his original state of pleasure with his assignment was the overall ease in it. He was a high ranking agent, termed "specialist" for a reason. He went in on situations that were impossible, no-win, with no extraction plans. Fury dropping a cake walk on him was about as rare as seeing a zebra-drawn carriage in Central Park. He should have known to raise his hackles and be on his guard. Sometimes, though, believing in the zebras was easier than facing his own reality. Currently, straddled over the crippled body of Agent Makarov, all Clint really wanted was some real back up._

_Elijah Slade was not at all what his brief deposition file introduced him to be. At nearly seven feet in height, and enough muscle mass to threaten Thor's manhood, Slade was a veritable beast of a creation. Clint hoped to attribute his size to steroids. It was easier coming to terms with that possibility than the truth. Then Slade reached over, picked up the fallen Agent Simpson, and proceeded to hurl him forty feet through the air. Clint heard the sickening snap as the man left an imprint in the concrete wall of an adjacent housing complex. He didn't bother to look at the dead body. He remained trained on Slade._

_He had an arrow mounted and ready against his bow. The fletches lined perfectly along his string, and part of his mind imagined how many of the projectiles it might take before he made a dent in the Goliath. Beneath him Makarov paddled his feet and writhed in pain, though he could say nothing. His jaw lay at an odd angle. Shattered most likely. Clint risked his footing to nudge the man's head sideways. At least he wouldn't choke on his own blood while Barton kept his sights trained on Slade. He didn't plan on starting his day like this. He had a perfectly good plan for making contact with the bone-to-pick guy. SHIELD just ran out of patience._

_"Hey, look here, Zeus," Clint said, drawing Slade's attention to himself and off of the cluster of injured SHIELD agents. Clint couldn't help the little hitch in his chest when the man actually did look his way. "That's right. Over here. Hey, look, man, this is gearing up to get extra ugly unless you do me a big favor and take a few steps back. I don't want to slam a few arrows through your skull, but if you push me, that's exactly what's going to happen."_

_The man flexed his mounds of muscles from beneath his shirt. Clint heard a few of the seams give way as if the man might Hulk out at any moment. Barton lowered a little more into his crouch. It stabilized his core and helped keep the exertion shake out of his hands. This guy might only give him one chance to take him down, but hitting him was going to be like bringing down a water buffalo with a b-b gun. For the thousandth time, Clint glanced at the tip on his arrow. He mentally willed it to be anything beside the standard tip it was. Given the situation, he would have preferred something with a bit more of a punch. Like an exploding one._

_Elijah straightened his back, cracking his vertebrae in place. It sounded like slabs of concrete settling under a house. "I am not Zeus! I am Balfore the Surmounter! I am the deposed son of Grogun the Killer and Belfast the Red." He began to stride closer. Each footfall taking him three feet into Clint's comfort zone. Clint's shoulders tightened. "I am he who Odin thrust from court and he who plans to wreak his revenge on the son of the Allfather. He will see no flash of Valhalla when my fists tighten upon his throat and his blood drips through my fingers!"_

_Mind made up, Clint released the arrow. He watched the shaft launch into the Asgardian's eye socket but didn't see more than that. He swung his bow over his chest and grabbed Markov under the armpits and began to drag. Balfore the Surmounter was officially a threat. Markov didn't offer much help for his own survival, leaving the majority of his heavy lifting to Clint, who struggled to lift him up alone. He cast a look back at the progress of Balfore._

_The Asgardian fell over backward with his hands crushed against the side of his face. He roared in anger, screamed about how dare a Midgardian lowlife assault a son of Asgard. One of his hands wrapped around the arrow shaft and instantly plucked it out of his flesh. He rolled to his side and trained his one good eye on Clint._

_"Crap." Clint breathed. He shuffled faster, dragging Markov through the metal gate that separated the back alley he'd cornered Balfore in from the watching public. Not that many people frequented this part of town that early in the morning, but Clint wanted to be safe. Since Balfore refused to meet him in Central Park after he'd spent half the night there, he chose this place for its relative decrease in human activity. Until the SHIELD team started sniping them from above, the first contact had gone relatively well. He heard a lot of nonsense that lead him to consider putting "psych eval required" in his final threat assessment of the guy. Instead, he was going to suggest someone with a bigger gun than himself seal Balfore up in SHIELD's super villain prison, the Fridge, for the next four hundred years._

_In a way, he was getting sick of Asgard's problem kids finding him._

_Clint squeezed Makarov through the gate ahead of him. Four other SHIELD agents took over from there dragged him off to the two waiting SUVs._

_"Someone get their head in a mic and tell Iron Man to get off his brass and get here before this guy—AH!" Clint didn't have a chance to finish his statement before Balfore was on him again. The ogre wrapped his massive hand around Clint's quiver and yanked the archer back into the alleyway. He flew ten feet and collided with the adjacent wall of a Shabu Shabu breakfast bar._

_"Agent Barton?!" someone cried._

_Clint struggled to right himself. He grabbed another arrow out of his quiver, feeling the three hash marks he'd carved just below the nock. The more marks, the bigger the boom. He needed a big boom. He yanked his bow off his chest and from where he sat trying to gain his wits back, he fired the first shot into Balfore's knee. It lodged in the joint a second before the arrowhead sent out a rib-rattling seismic quake. Balfore fell to one side, his hand reached down to pull the arrow free._

_Clint used his legs and the wall for support to get back on his feet. There was no way he could stop the guy himself. He needed help. Balfore stared him down. The arrow extracted from his knee and he snapped it in half. If such a thing was possible, Clint might assume the guy was running on a gamma filled rage. His voice sounded like a big dog caught in a '65 Mustang's muffler. _

_"You will bring me the son of Odin, or I will not rest until I see this entire city burning under the fires of my rage."_

_Clint swallowed. He had no doubt about that assessment. Beyond him the terrified agents attempted to sneak back in but Clint shook his head furiously. He had this before they showed up and tried shooting people. At his direction they pulled back a little, but hovered by the flimsy chain link. It was time for him to flash that special note he saved just for this occasion._

_Clint tapped his leather vest at the V formed beneath his throat. This was some gambit to play, but he was happy he took the precaution. "All right, big guy, I get it. You want Thor. I know where he is. I got news for you, you're in the wrong city. He cleared out three days back, maybe he heard you were coming. I've got that location right here." He tapped his chest a second time for emphasis. He had the guy's attention like a sniper scope burning a hole into him. "Look, I will give you this location. I just-"_

_Balfore launched to his feet with a snarl. He spun around to the SHIELD agents, three of which who had just attempted to take him down with icers, or their concentrated knockout darts. The only thing they did was enrage him more. Clint inwardly rolled his eyes. He knew SHIELD didn't see him as a reliable agent anymore, but they could at least give him some room to work. Balfore took two of them down with a massive green dumpster he lifted and hurled over his head. Half a second later he was eyeing Barton down._

_"This looks bad." Clint whispered. He grabbed three arrows at once, having no time to check their hash marks before he fed them onto his string, pulled back, and let them fly. Not a single one affected him. Clint lost his footing as the Asgardian yanked him of his feet and for a second time Barton found himself flying through the air. He hit another wall, but thankfully this one wasn't made of concrete. He sailed right through the Shabu Shabu into the main kitchen of the New York resturant, and landed wedged against a sous chef's prep table. Luckily for the chef, the guy just happened to duck down to retrieve a fallen slice of cherry tomato. He stood back up and noticed the SHIELD agent on his cutting board._

_"I'll take two double cheese burgers, hold the mayo with a side of Hulk and Thor to go." Clint said._

_The sous chef flipped around to see Balfore the Surmounter muscling his way through the Clint-sized hole in the wall. Having a good deal of sense, the chef took off. Clint groaned, dropping out of the depression over the counter top to land on the floor. He crawled a few feet down the prep line, found an opening beneath a rolling tray just large enough to slide under and quickly stuffed his body in. He clutched his bow against his chest and held his breath in anticipation._

_"ARCHER!" the Asgardian roared._

_Clint closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and waited. He could hear the man stalking around the room, unearthing first a stove, and then the fridge. A butcher block sailed end over end by Barton's face and spilled the block of knives over the floor. He arched his eyebrow and reached over to grab the paring knife. He held it over his bow and continued to hold out for the right moment._

_"I will have Thor's head upon my wall before the morrow ends! I will grind your bones in my hands and feel your life extinguish like an insect!"_

_Balfore continued to stalk down the line, destroying the kitchen as he went. Clint remained in his hideout beneath the metal dish cart. He was in his happy place, the little area in his mind he liked to hideout in when life dragged him to the most unsavory locations on the planet. He had a beach there. One of those beaches where the sand didn't stick to you, the water was always the perfect temperature, and his chair was set up right in the surf. There was one perfect cloud floating up in that sky to block out the majority of the sun. He glanced over at the spot next to him, expecting to see Natasha in his daydream but instead saw one giant foot stomp down against rust colored floor tiles. So much for paradise. Work showed up._

_He spun the knife around in his hand and drove it home into the giant's foot. Balfore screamed. He lifted the edge of the dish rack and hurled it across the room. Clint scrambled away as the white plates sailed into the air and came crashing down. He spun halfway to the door and yanked another arrow out of his quiver. He sent this sonic tip whizzing by the Asgardian's face. Balfore's hands clamped to either side of his head. He threw out his booted foot and caught a wheeled cart. Clint had a split second to climb over the gas burners on the industrial stove to keep from getting his legs smashed. He was lucky it was still early in the morning, and the breakfast sous chef had yet to turn on the range, otherwise he'd be cooked._

_From the top of the stove, Clint yanked another arrow free and planned to bury the standard tip someplace more sensitive. He didn't exactly want the guy dead, but if it was between Barton and Balfore, Clint was planning to be a smidge selfish._

_"Agent Barton!" Someone called from the swinging kitchen door. The entry was at Balfore's back, across from Clint. The Asgardian turned in place with an entire cabinet raised over his head. He let the furniture fly with a massive crash of silverware and an explosion of wood. Clint sent the arrow into the base of his spine and dropped off the stove top while the Asgardian squirmed. He twisted around the massive body and dug the SHIELD agent out from under the cabinet._

_"You got a death wish?!" Barton screamed at him. "I said get Stark! Stop running in here!"_

_"My back's busted!" the agent screamed._

_"I don't doubt it, he hit you with a kitchen!" Ignoring the man's cries, Clint dragged him to his feet and dropped him into the waiting hands of the nearly fifteen "backup" agents sent to help him control the monster. "Out!" Clint ordered, one step away from firing an exploding tip at the flock of them. "This guy's gonna bring the whole place down!"_

_As the words left his mouth, someone shouted out a warning. Clint ducked just in time to avoid a knife slicing through the air after him. He dodged sideways, groped around the nearest shelf for anything that he might use as a weapon, and his hand met the handle of a cast iron pan. He smiled despite being trapped in a corner with no way to escape._

_Balfore ignored the agents, who had finally decide their own lives were worth more without snapped spines, and backed away. He focused all of his animalistic fury on Clint. Blood smeared both of his hands and dripped into the massive red beard covering his face. Clint tried not to focus on the gaping hole where his left eye had once been intact and was now no longer visible. _

_"Do you believe your paltry arrows will fell the Surmounter?" he roared._

_Clint held out his free hand, having draped his bow against his chest again. His eyes flicked to the knife in the man's hand, ready to disarm him if need be. "Easy, Brock Sampson. You got me, all right? I'm giving you whatever you want. Thor, right? You want Thor? Need to make him pay, and revenge, and all that? Here—" Clint reached into the V of his leather vest and extracted the note he placed there. "I've been following the guy too. Just like you. This is where he is. I was going to go track down exactly where, but you were closer so I just came here first." The paper was folded up like a paper football, making it easier for Clint to flick it across the room at the guy. Sure the only thing written on it were some hand drawn directions to Finland and a blurry photo of a smiling Thor, but he figured Balfore would take the trumped up bait. "I'm not stopping you. Just take it and walk out of here. Thor's not in this city. He's right where that map shows."_

_The paper football bounced off Balfore's chest and hit the floor. Distracted, he leaned over to pick it up. Clint grabbed the handle to the cast iron pan, wound up, and aimed a line drive right into the side of the Asgardian's face. Clint tried to slip to the side of him and escape through the front door. He felt the punch catch him square under the ribs. He hit the swinging doors with a heavy thud. He struggled up on his hands and knees. His side was throbbing from the punch to his gut._

_He noticed the SHIELD agents finally took his advice and were packing it in until heavier artillery arrived. It was about time. Clint tried to use the nearest table to help pull himself up, but he never made it so far. He saw the coming wall of knuckles rushing toward the side of his face. He ducked his head just in time to take the knuckles against the back of his skull instead of the bridge of his nose. The room swirled around him in a kaleidoscope of stars. At first he still tried to stay conscious, but he swiftly lost the fight. He fell over onto his side and knew no more._

_:(:):(:):_

_Clint shook awake on high alert. He reached backward to grab an arrow out of his quiver and hissed as his brain did a mental backflip. A moan escaped his lips as he flipped over onto his side. He hoped the SHIELD van grabbed the license on the truck that ran him over. He stopped trying to pull out another arrow. Apparently he was alone. And there was a cabinet on top of him._

_He squinted through the coming daylight at the lines of caution tape surrounding the outside of the building. One black van idled out front in the cool air of the September, almost October, morning. Two SHIELD agents leaned on its door, sharing a couple of coffees._

_"Seriously?" Clint whispered. He shoved himself up and out from under the broken wood, using the chair and table from the nearest breakfast nook as hand holds. The change in angle sent an ice pick of pain through his skill. He swayed for a moment and tried to get his bearings again. His side hurt from where Balfore socked him and his head swam like he was trying to think through mud. The only thing he really cared about was why, when two SHIELD agents were yakking back and forth outside, was he still laying on the floor?_

_"Good job, guys, you know, just leave the comatose Barton on the floor. He won't care." Clint grumbled under his breath. He stiffly trudged to the front glass door and shoved it open. The carefully placed caution tape cascaded to the ground on either side of him._

_"Agent Daniels, the next time I decide to not let an Asgardian rip out your thorax, remind me of the time you left me on a floor to die. I could have been bleeding internally or something stupid." Clint growled, stalking by them._

_Agent Daniels started, causing the second agent at his side to squeeze his Styrofoam cup into a miniature eruption. He held the coffee away from his jacket as the liquid flowed down his hand._

_"Barton, you're alive?!" Daniels cried. He pointed to the room. "You were in there?!"_

_"Yeah, shocker, right? Thanks for poking me with a stick and confirming that death. Lucky I didn't actually bleed out or I would have held it personally against you." Clint found a cab parked by the curb. The driver was standing by the hood of the car snapping photos of the destruction in the alley and front windows. Apparently when Balfore took off, he left a trail behind him. As Clint slid into the car, he called over his shoulder to the SHIELD agents. "Do me a favor the next time I die on a mission and MOVE MY BODY out of the scene. I'd rather wake up in a morgue than wake up with a bunch of agents standing around sipping coffee!"_

_The driver dropped his phone into his pocket and jumped behind the wheel. He spun around to consider his new fare. "Hey man, you got up like some zombie or something. Aint you that Avenger guy?"_

_"Hawk guy." Clint replied, sitting back. His side hurt, but not nearly as much as the headache._

_"You need a hospital or something?"_

_He thought about it. Tony had been building a new place a few floors down from their private rooms in case emergencies ever came up. He didn't imagine he had anything worse than a concussion and frankly he had to get back to the Tower and make sure Thor was given a heads up about his Asgardian adversary. Clint looked at the time on the dashboard. "Geez, nine? Is it really nine in the morning?"_

_The cabbie nodded. "Yeah man."_

_"Well if SHIELD didn't care to move my dead body out of a building, they probably did have enough time to call Thor. Head to Stark Tower. I'm sleeping this one off."_

_"You sure about that? You look like some guy hit you with a stale Chicago pizza. And them things are like bricks."_

_Clint sunk down in the seat. "I'm sure. Got first aid there. I'll be fine but thanks for being the one concerned soul I've met today."_

_The cabbie grinned and turned to face the roadway. "Sure thing, Hawk Guy. Ya know, some of us folks here like a chance to drive heroes and such around. 'Specially ones supposed to be dead. Think the others are out lookin' for you? Wanna call 'em?" He reached into his pocket and held up his cell phone, shaking it enticingly. It was a generous offer. Clint imagined, though, the only reason he did give the option was so he might have a chance to store Tony Stark's number and call him like a stalker. While that option held its own sort of appeal, Clint declined. He wasn't in that bad of shape, and the team didn't even expect him back from his mission till that night when Pepper—_

_"Crap. The party. Hey, is there a store, like a convenience food stop or something along the way?" Clint asked, rubbing the knob on the back of his head. He'd almost completely forgotten about Pepper's party that night. He had no intention of even showing up, but Natasha called and suggested it might be a good way for him to start blending in. He was attracting a little too much interest, in her opinion, from the others by staying a loner. Curiosity often had people hunting through his things when he didn't want them to. Avoiding that, prevented unwelcome occurrences. Like accidentally shooting people who came to raid around his room for clues about his life. Clint liked to point out that he'd only ever shot someone once, and he still blamed that agent entirely, but Natasha never seemed to see it from his point of view._

_"There's a Wawa on Eighth, want me to swing by there?"_

_Clint looked up from where he rubbed his temple. "Wawa? What's a Wawa?"_

_"It's like a convenience store but don't tell nobody from Jersey that's what it is. They'd cut ya and tell ya you're wrong."_

_Clint arched his eyebrows but covered his eyes again beneath his hand. "Hmm. Don't need to get cut by anyone in Jersey today." Eighth Street was on the other side of Manhattan, a nice distance from where they were already. There used to be a local shop, but the Chitauri made short work of that. He noticed a corner hoagie place and made the cabbie pull over, but he could tell from the backseats the shop hadn't opened since something took out its dividing wall with the pawn shop next door. Three strikes and he was out._

_"You know, forget it. I'll figure something out. Thanks for trying, just take me home."_

_The cabbie stared at him for a while in the rearview mirror as he guided the yellow car back into the flow of morning traffic. Clint wondered why he'd chosen to say the word 'home' instead of "Stark's Place", the "Golden Tower" or "The Monolith" instead as were his usual go-to choices for referring to the place he slept at. He must have hit his head harder than he thought. A brain injury could make him sentimental, or at least that's how he reconciled himself._

_It didn't take long to reach the underground garage. From there his security pass would access the private elevator to the lobby and he'd switch to a second elevator once Happy checked him in. He was impressed by Stark's security for the most part. That didn't mean he couldn't still break in whenever he felt like it._

_Clint let his quiver down from his shoulder stiffly. The gut punch made it hard to breathe if he moved too fast. Broken ribs weren't out of the question either. He added those to the tally of his injuries. He slipped a hand into the side pouch of his quiver and came up with a few bills._

_"All I've got is forty. Will that cover it?" He asked._

_The cabbie waved his hand. "For you man? An Avenger takin' my cab outta all the ones in this city? Nah, it's on the house, just don't tell my boss that, ya know?"_

_Clint smiled but leaned forward and shoved the two bills in the guy's front pocket. "I don't do free. It's nothing on you, I just don't like owing people things. You can keep that for you though, I'm not telling anyone."_

_The guy smiled and laughed. "Yeah, yeah, I got ya. Hey, hold on a sec!"_

_Clint had turned and swiped himself into the elevator's control panel. He slipped the Avengers ID card into his back pocket and turned to see what the man tried to hand him. It was a business card for Mr. Jerome McDonald III. The black man's smiling face adorned the front as he stood by the nose of his cab with arms crossed and teeth glistening white. He either looked like someone's old and demented uncle, or the guy a mobster might higher to take you on the final ride. Clint didn't point the ill fitting likeness out though. He took the offering and slipped it into his pocket by the ID card. "Thanks. Might regret it, though. I tend to fall off a lot of buildings and need a ride. I don't fly like the other guys."_

_He laughed again and patted the archer's shoulder. A few parting regards later and Clint was walking into the elevator and Jerome pulled away._

_Clint took the elevator up, signed in with Happy and asked about where Thor might be. Hearing the Asgardian had stepped out that morning, he made the obvious assumption that he'd been sent off on Balfore's trail. Good for him. The two could tear up Finland together and leave Clint out of it._

_The elevator ride up to his apartment was easy and thankfully silent. Natasha wasn't planning to be back until later that morning. She was going to grill him for not stopping and picking up a dish for that night's potluck, but she'd figure something out. She was good like that._

_His apartment door was locked as per usual. He slid his ID card along the entry and typed in the private code onto the side of the door. His boots instantly came off once he stepped inside. Breaking in a new pair was probably one of the most painful processes he had to endure. Given the last ones had their soles sliced up from a plate glass window, he didn't exactly have an option except replacing them. Looking at the mud all over them, from the crap in the alley and tracking all over Central Park, he knew later that day he'd have to sit down and clean them. That was a task for later._

_He left the door to swing shut on its own and headed into the living room. It usually took him a few minutes to settle into the place out of habit alone. In a zombie apocalypse, rule number 35 was to always check the back seats of a car before you decided to drive it. Rule number 1 in Clint's apartment living guide: always check your apartment for hidden ninjas before settling in for a nap. He did his traditional rounds, checking the highs and then the lows of every room, surface, and cabinet before finally dropping his gear in the SHIELD duffle by his wall of windows. When he stood up, the entire world spun around him._

_Clint threw his arms to either side and steadied himself. Too much. He was doing too much. His chest was tight and painful. His side throbbed from the hardy blow he'd received but that would go away in time. Having spent almost four days on his feet, all he wanted was a little rest and relaxation. Over to the couch he went._

_A shot of pain cut through him when he dropped down into the cushions. He scrunched his face, wincing against the spasm. Natasha would suggest he get a bottle of aspirin. That was in the bedroom, sitting in the back of a drawer. The idea of getting up to get it sounded like more work than the reward was worth. He should have checked in with the team. Should have went to medical first and had them clear the smack on his head. Instead, he tucked against the cushions of the world's best couch and let his exhaustion reach up and drag him under._

_Then his phone rang._

_Clint groaned. He glanced over his shoulder at the bag on the floor, willing the duffle to sprout legs and heed to its master's request of crawling closer. When that failed to work, he summoned the Force, throwing out his hand like a Jedi and hoping that a punch from an Asgardian Goliath had somehow transported him to a different galaxy far, far away. With two non successes, Clint simply gave up. If he wasn't standing to grab aspirin, then going over to pick up his phone wasn't worth the effort either._

_The phone rang again. Clint growled against his arm and rolled on his back. He gasped when the bottom cushion he slept on came in contact with the bruise surely forming along his side. He leaned his head to both sides, hearing the satisfying pop of his cervical vertebrae releasing their tension. Naturally his eyes went to the clock on the wall above the end of the couch._

_"Three?!" He exclaimed, forcing himself up. How was that even possible? He'd only been asleep for a few seconds at most before the phone started screaming again. It was a little past nine when he initially hit the couch. Where had all those hours gone? How long had the person been trying to call him? Most likely it was Natasha. He'd planned to pick her up from the airport. Crap. She wasn't going to let him hear the end of this one._

_He dropped his arm against the couch cushion and lifted himself up. He hardly made it halfway when something shot through him like a bolt of Thor's lightning. His entire body tensed. A cry escaped his lips and he reflexively sent a hand against the pain in his side. That was when he felt it. A bath of ice showered his spine. He froze in place, his fingers probing that little bit of metal hanging out of him. He followed it in, against his flesh, and stopped._

_"This is bad." He whispered._

:(:):(:):

Natasha sidled up to the glass and pressed her palms down on the window sill. Clint was sleeping fitfully inside his makeshift hospital room surrounded by a gaggle of SHIELD nurses and techs. He attempted to lash out at a few of them when his nightmares became too much. They waited for him to settle again, then slowly fed the cuffs onto his wrists. This was his normal. It wasn't right, he was never right all the years she'd known him, but the little peculiarities came with the package that Clint Barton was wrapped in. She started keeping a med kit in his mission pack to avoid the majority of hospital runs. He liked the idea and overtime they stole themselves half a hospital's worth of drugs and supplies. They became pretty decent field surgeons, but the big things, the ones that triggered him the most, still always landed Clint in the ER.

He never visited her when she got laid up. That was simply a part of him she'd come to expect and deal with. But being a Black Widow meant she didn't need someone sitting at her bedside filling her with false hope and lies. Maybe that's why she liked him. He literally took the awkward option off the table entirely.

"Clint dragged more than one agent out of that fight. Their C/O got booted to Bahrain for the hair brain moves he made. He tried to cover up his team's deficits. when Balfore took off for Finland, he thought he might have enough time to do just that. He sealed the restaurant off and posted a few guys to watch the place until he could figure out what to do with what he thought was Clint's body. " Natasha said, finishing the story the Avengers all gathered to hear. "Clint hadn't slept in four days, so I guess I can't fault him for being such an easy target. SHIELD thought he was dead. Balfore did too. The agents were already clear so Balfore left Clint there. Clint used up one of his nine lives to jump a cab and come home."

That was the tallest tale Banner had ever heard. Short of a scientist turning himself into a giant greed rage monster with the help of gamma radiation. He indicated Natasha, Steve, and Thor. "All right, so I'm guessing the three of you tracked this guy down? I'd hate to know how he looks. How'd you even find him?"

Steve hiked a thumb at Natasha. "Remember when Barton called her before going under? He told her how to find Balfore. To avenge Clint if she needed to."

"My assailant now resides in the prison of the Fridge where your Midgardians assure me he shall not again see the day's sun. We have done some mighty avenging today my friends!" Thor exclaimed, lifting his hammer. Halfway up he winced, and lowered his arm again.

"I'm sure you have." Tony said. "Do us all a favor, though, and keep it down. Clint's back taking a cat nap. If he was really awake for as long as you say he was, I don't blame him for trying to sleep it off."

Natasha peered through the darkness in the room. The nurses around Clint attempted to keep his oxygen mask in place without much success. He might not be able to move his arms anymore, but he continued to rub his face against the pillow and push it off. He didn't like the air blowing against him. It was an old diving problem he had. When a person went scuba diving, the air only flows when the diver inhales. An oxygen mask supplied it continuously. Clint almost drowned once in a diving accident off the coast of Petit Martinique four years back. Since then, he never liked oxygen masks. He related them to that moment. Apparently it felt like the air was trying to drown him. She'd never been in that situation before and couldn't commiserate.

"He's going to be alright?" she asked.

"It's still touch and go. Could have been worse, but worse means he died and didn't come back."

"His heart stopped?"

"Twice on the operating table. He's still got a long road ahead of him." Bruce said.

The joviality of a battle fought and won instantly depressed in the room. It was easy to forget Clint's struggle when their own was so tangible. Thor limped over and stood beside her. The heroes watched as Clint tried to find some rest after his first day post op. They'd stick by him, in case there was anything the Avengers could do to help.

* * *

what a marathon. obviously the next chapter isn't going to be as long. expect some team bonding/Natasha comfort coming next

not many chapters left. maybe 2. i know this was a long one but guess what? you made it through!

Please don't forget to review!


	8. Chapter 8

_**a/n: added a little bit to this one, not much. having a little perspective shift over the next couple chapters!**_

Thank you to:::

BoomerCat, Lillehafrue, khaitosfren, Hamato Alexa, Batghost, comicsans-spideydehaanfan, all my guests!, discordchick, Ms. Hawkeye, BecauseImBatman108, IWriteSinsOrTragedies, shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod, NorthernMage, Qweb, TheNaggingCube, JRBarton

jensmit75 (I absolutely loved writing about him ordering a cheeseburger while sitting on the cutting board.)

Akane Izo (aw thank you! I really love how that chapter came out too!)

* * *

**Friends Check for Bullet Wounds**

**Chapter 8**

Day One Post-Op, 10:25am

Clint rolled over in his bed, or tried to. He smelled that familiar, aseptic scent and instantly his brain cylinders started pumping on high alert. His hand clamped hold of something. It was hard but movable. A weapon, maybe, if he needed it. The room was dark. The men who took him liked to keep it dark, thinking the disorientation would keep him calm and complacent. Those words meant nothing to Clint. He had one purpose, one goal, one steady repetition in his life and that was the ever present need to get out. He would escape in a hail of gunfire, take a dozen chest shots if he had to, but he was going to get out either walking or in a body bag.

"Easy, slugger, that's my arm." It was another unfamiliar voice in the sea of comers and goers. At first there was only one man. A typical torture technique. He began to hate that individual he never had a name for. He was the object of all of Clint's rage as Barton endured the constant, unending suffering under that man's ministrations. He called him Carver for what he'd done to Tomslin. It felt like weeks before that agent died attached to Clint's arm. He could still feel the nails digging into his flesh before the agent's fingers were taken away. He could still hear Carver's words echoing in his brain in the darkness of the hospital room.

_"You're next."_

_"Not long now, Barton."_

_"Your time's coming."_

_"Only one leg left Barton, when Tomslin's gone, you're next."_

_"Tomslin's dead, Clint."_

_"I'm coming back. We're starting on you tomorrow."_

Clint pulled harder at that potential weapon, only to find it pulling back. Someone was holding him. Carver must have come back. It was his turn. His time. He would start with his fingers, snapping them off one at a time before moving to Barton's toes. He could scream and shout, beg and cry, but nothing would stop what he knew was coming. His life was over. His eyes flicked open and he lunged all at once. Sternum met palm, and Clint never made it more than an inch off the mattress. He wanted to fight, he threw a punch, tried to kick. If these guys weren't going to kill him outright he would find a reason to make them. At this point he couldn't be picky. SHIELD wasn't coming for him, and even if they did, he'd be half dead by then. He refused to live the rest of his life as nothing but a torso.

Over him the voices kept talking. He tried to focus on their faces but it was difficult in the darkness.

Someone asked, "What did Tony say? Oh, the ties. No, don't tie him, I've got it. He's coming around. Clint, it's Steve. It's the Captain."

"You're doing it wrong. You have to pretend like he's back there and bring him around that way."

A strong body was holding him down and Clint wanted desperately to slam a knuckle into the man's face. Two people were talking now and he tried to get his eyes to zero in on them. He didn't care if there were two or a hundred. He was getting out and he was getting what remained of Tomslin out with him.

"Agent Barton, you can stop fighting now. You're back in our hands. The mission is over. I need you to do me a favor, Agent Barton. I need you to let go of Captain Roger's arm. It's in your left hand. Can you open your hand for me?"

The automatic quality of that tone brought Clint to an abrupt stop. Didn't he recognize that voice?

"Agent Barton, open your left hand."

"I don't mind if he grabs me, Bruce, it's not like he can hurt me."

"The next time he grabs someone it might be me, or Tony, or Pepper. We're trying to break fifteen years of bad habits, here, not inspire them to continue."

Clint considered those voices arguing back and forth in concerned whispers. Now that he thought about it, they did sound the slightest bit familiar. Clint blinked the world into some kind of focus again. The room was still dark, but it didn't have the same black out quality he'd been used to for so long. He adjusted his wrist a little. He couldn't hear the jingle of the metal handcuffs. He moved his right hand a measure and there was no resistance of Tomslin's dead weight dragging against his. The soft voice continued to ask him something. To open his left hand. Eventually Clint complied. A face materialized in the dark.

"Bruce?" he asked.

The hand on Clint's chest retracted.

"That's right." Bruce applauded. He sounded exhausted.

"Where am I? What am I doing here?" Clint asked. He considered sitting up again, but the hand returned to press him down. It belonged to Steve. Just behind him, Natasha was perched on a cabinet with a doctor standing in front of her face, sewing something back together. She smiled at him.

"Clint, you were in a knife fight. You lost. You were in surgery for fourteen hours. Do you remember waking up?" Bruce asked.

"Wasn't Stark here?" Clint asked, trying to work through his disorientation.

"For a little while he was. I sent him to bed. He's been awake for the past twenty-eight hours."

Clint looked up at Steve. "Where'd you come from?"

"Finland." Steve said with a smile.

"Finland? My Finland? My note for Thor, Finland?" Clint asked. He tried to look around Steve at Natasha. When did she show up?

"Yeah. That was real clever of you telling Balfore that Thor was hiding out in probably the most remote area of that country. Made it a little easier for us to take him down. Natasha made a pit stop in DC on her way back from Atlanta and stole a jet to take us out. Seems like you got her right when she sat down for her flight home." Steve replied.

"Should have seen the flight attendants face when I forced her to taxi us back." Natasha said.

"Yeah, well, I thought it was a pretty clever idea too. That's why I did it." Clint reached up and rubbed his face. He wanted to see Natasha a little better, but Steve was in the way, and she wasn't coming closer. There was an oxygen mask strapped over his nose again, something that he always detested. He wanted to get up, get out of this horrid smelling place and go back home. Then again, he didn't exactly have a home anymore. Thor dropped a Chitauri monster on it months back. He wanted to do anything besides sit in his bed.

But, despite all the things Barton might have wanted to do, he simply couldn't. His body required rest and it was going to get it whether he agreed or not. Steve's hand slipped against his palm as the Captain leaned a little closer.

"It's all right, Clint. We've got you."

He tried to say something witty or sarcastic but the words flew away under the heavy shades of sleep stealing in.

:(:):(:):

Second Day Post-Op 1:43am

"Is that him?" Natasha asked, sitting forward in her chair.

Bruce groaned from his spot on the floor. He rolled over, dragging the blanket he'd grabbed from his room onto his shoulders. Natasha called his name to try and rouse the doctors, though Bruce continued to stuff his head under his pillow. Giving up, Natasha let him sleep.

This had been an occurrence every hour or so with Clint struggling out of his cat naps to fight the world of demons he saw around him. Over time, though, Bruce's gentle coaxing seemed to be making an impact. He was strangely attentive, determined to take over Clint's primary care like a surgical resident muscling into a heart transplant. Pepper stopped by for a few hours to force some lunch into him, but for the most part Bruce and his procured chair were a single entity. Clint would shuffle awake, Bruce got to his feet, and he'd go on coaxing Barton into a sane state. Clint had to ask for his cuffs to come off, and once he did, Bruce followed through and took them off. Positive reinforcement, he called it. When Clint was in his normal senses again, Natasha planned to ask just what he thought about being trained like a Papillion. The results couldn't be argued with. In the past, Barton never stayed more than twelve minutes on his back without trying to strangle someone. Doctor's hated working his cases. His medical file even contained a "sedate and strap on entry" tag. The only other time she'd ever seen that on a file was for the—

Natasha ended her line of thought with a glance at Bruce on the floor. Ok, now things were beginning to fall into place. Clint in a hospital could very well be compared to a Hulk. She'd never thought of it that way. Bruce was keenly familiar with attempts to talk people out of explosive reactions. This might be the first time he tried it on someone beside himself. He stopped tying Clint down seven hours before. That was a world record.

She scooted her chair closer to Clint's side and draped her hand against the back of his. He jerked away automatically but didn't immediately snap her fingers back. Small improvements were beautiful to see.

"Don't worry, I'm not here to steal your kidneys." She whispered to him. She neglected to say what she really thought, that Tomslin was dead. He'd been dead for over a decade whether Clint's muddled brain wanted to figure that out or not. She knew what he'd gone through in that old chop shop, and not because Clint told her. She'd been curious enough to go digging up a non-redacted file about the incident. Took her three months to track the information down. Fury was mad, which she expected. He'd taken special care of burying Clint's history. The gory details were well worth the trouble taken to keep them out of general knowledge.

Clint struggled a little more as she continued to whisper to him. By this point she'd repeated the words enough times to make it worth her while to cut an mp3. They'd call it "Hawkeye's Wake Up Hits". He might smile at that when he actually woke up.

She rested her hand on his shoulder and held his arm down. The IV tubing was dancing through the air as he struggled to free himself from it. Since it was the one feeding him morphine, she figured preventing its removal was the best course of action.

"Tash?" Clint asked, noticing her after some time.

She smiled, propping her elbow beside his hand and dropping her chin into its palm. "Didn't have to say it in Russian."

He moaned, trying to turn over, though the pain and exhaustion stopped him. "Russian?"

"You called me. I don't know if you remember. I saved the message. Avenge you. You actually said you wanted me to avenge you. I thought it was funny until you said goodbye." She picked at an invisible piece of lint on the sheet. "You never said that before."

"You need to change your voicemail." He replied. He could clearly see her at his arm. He imagined if she was comfortable enough to share her private thoughts, they must also be alone. Someone was snoring though and he couldn't see who that might be.

Natasha considered him for a moment. "Why? What does it say? It's not like I call my own phone."

"You were mad at me. Apparently you won't call me back unless I'm dead."

She stifled a laugh. "Did that injure your keen sensibilities?"

"No, it made me think I was going to die."

Natasha stopped picking at the blanket. Her eyes rested on him. There was a struggle hiding there under the cooling blue. "You were worried."

He tried to shrug. His face tightened in a grimace. She wanted to say something to end the tension between them, but Clint beat her to it. "What happened to your head?"

Natasha sat back against her chair and tucked her hands behind her head. Red frizz escaped her ponytail and showed off the five stitches. A circular bruise formed around them. "I'm going to blame you on that one. The directions were good. I blew by here for a bit and picked up Thor and Steve along the way. Glad I grabbed the muscle. I'm not sure what was SHIELD's deal on this one. They really botched your handling. When I told Fury I was going in whether he wanted me to or not, he didn't even put up an argument. I think he was mad at himself over it. You should call him when you feel better. Clint?"

She straightened a little. "Clint?"

He wore himself out after a few seconds of listening and right back to sleep he'd gone. Natasha smiled, slipping her hand into his while he slept. He would always be her pain. She owed him that much for all he'd done to prove her character when SHIELD just wanted to shoot her first and decide her true allegiances later. Clint made a different call, Fury supported him. Case closed. The least she could do for him was to sit at his side and help banish his inner demons back into the shadows. They could always keep her own demons comfortable there.

:(:):(:):

Second Day Post-Op 7:12pm

"I want a cheeseburger." Clint groaned into his arm. He'd yanked the oxygen mask off again, determined to not spend one more moment under its cool air currents. He rubbed against the long strip of white bandages over his chest, moaning again.

"You're on full liquid diet still. As for edibles, you have two options. Pudding or jello." Tony said, combing through a copy of Forbes magazine beside him. He glanced up over the splayed open book. "You feeling ok? You're doing an awful lot of writhing over there."

Clint kept his head under his free arm and tried to stop complaining. It didn't work. " 's fine." He muttered depressingly.

Tony snapped the magazine closed. "You're supposed to be on pain drugs. Are they not working?"

"Mmm." Clint hummed, trying to find a good way to lie. In the end he blatantly gave up. "Nope. They're not. I feel like someone snapped my rib in half. Why do I still have a tube in my chest?"

Tony reached forward and stopped Clint's hand as the archer made to pull the offending article out. "Oh, no you don't. You yank that, they stick another in. And you didn't exactly want the first one." He raised his voice to carry into the hall where Bruce stood discussing patient follow-up care with Dr. Jackson. "Can we get some drugs in here? A little crack with a side of downers maybe?"

Clint snorted, attempting to laugh but inhaled sharply when the move sent an electric current of pain through him. Tony noticed it too and he squeezed Clint's shoulder gently. The door opened and Dr. Jackson leaned inside. "Something up, Mr. Stark?"

"Yeah an empty happy cocktail bag. The Hawk's squirming around like something's pulling his guts out."

Clint groaned. "Oh, don't say that."

"Why not? I think it's fitting."

Clint's head suddenly appeared from under his arm. He grabbed the side rail on the bed and tried to lean right over toward the floor. "No, guts. Sick. Think I'm about to lose it."

Jackson strode in with Bruce and they set to checking Clint's IV access. Tony scrambled to grab the trash bin and held it up to Clint's face. Half a second later, all the meals Clint missed came back up in a liquid form. Tony arched his head back and buried his nose in his shirt to avoid the sights and smells coming out of the archer now. Clint collapsed back into his bed and Tony shoved the bin into the hallway.

"Oh, that was bad. That hurt. That really hurt." Clint groaned, pressing a palm to his forehead. His chest felt like it was on fire, not to mention what the rest of his organs were up to. The others continued to talk around him but he stopped paying them any attention. Ignoring the pain was more important.

"Agent Barton, it looks like all that tugging finally did your catheter in. It's plugged up. I'm going to move your pain medication to the opposite arm until I can replace it. Still feeling nauseous?"

Clint's head bobbed against his arm.

"Planning to throw up again?"

"Ugh, I sure hope not."

"I'll try and get something for that too. Just hang out for a bit."

The doctor exchanged the lines of hanging medications, adding the second line to Clint's right hand for the pain medication to start flowing again. While he worked to fix the immediate problem, Bruce removed Clint's first catheter. It had been hurriedly placed initially and Barton had spent the majority of his time trying to yank out of it.

"Clint, I'm using a different vein. This one's going on the side of your hand." Bruce told him.

The archer groaned again. "Awe come on . . . I hate the side."

"Sorry, that's the breaks. I'll use a smaller one, though. How's that sound?"

"Still like you're ramming a needle wrapped in plastic under my skin." One blue eye suddenly flipped open to stare at Tony. "Hey, you know what I just realized? Catheters have a lot in common with condoms."

Tony snorted. Clint hadn't spent more than half an hour fully conscious since his surgery and still he found a way to crack a joke. These were the longest conversations Tony had ever shared with Barton. Over time, he had grown to discover a few fascinating things. He had a sarcasm sharp enough to hone a blade by and he acted unlike any SHIELD agent Tony ever knew. Lying, conniving, stealing into people's lives were things that Tony knew SHIELD agents did well. Clint Barton was surprisingly plain for lack of a better word. If Tony didn't know something about him, it was because the billionaire simply didn't ask the right question. It might have taken a few of their small talks, but Tony decided that he rather liked the archer. Standing next to him, Tony could tell Clint was suffering but he still did everything he could to put everyone else at ease about it.

"I hate waking up in here. I want my couch back. When can I get you guys to leave so I can sneak off?"

The seriousness of Clint's tone gave Tony some pause. He leaned on the bed rail. "Really? What is it, the steel grey walls? The constant beep of your heart monitor in time with the inflation of your blood pressure cuff, which by the way, you have kept on for more than an hour."

Clint took his hand from where Bruce was attempting to apply a sterile scrub and pulled the Velcro off on his blood pressure cuff and threw it as far as its attachment would go. Bruce counted to three to avoid his edge of frustration at Clint's blatant outburst and took the hand back to start scrubbing all over again.

Tony looked down at the cuff on the floor. "Well, that was mature."

"I _hate_ hospitals." Clint repeated. "Whether you built them or not. I want out of this place."

"That's not happening until the doctors clear you. In the meantime, are you planning to pass out again before I come back with your choice of raspberry Jello or banana pudding?" Tony asked.

The blue eye shut. "Are those really my only choices?"

"Until I find a way to create a cheeseburger flavored pudding, then yes. They are."

"Jello. And so help you, if there are floating chunks of berries in it, I'm throwing it up on your shoes."

Tony laughed again and retreated to the door. "Ok, ok. No fruit chunks, no shwarma, no calling you "agent", and no doctor/patient crap. Is there anything else, dearest?"

"Call me that again and I'll shoot you in the knee with a .38. If I wake up in _this _bed _one more time_, I'm aiming somewhere you care more about."

Bruce's eyebrow shot up in Tony's direction. Obviously he didn't think Clint was bluffing. From where he sat on the floor, Thor chuckled.

"Legolas, your wish is my reason to develop eyes in the back of my head." Tony slipped away.

By the time he returned Clint was out like a light. He leaned against the door jamb. Not one to waste boxed-Jello squares, he unearthed his spoon from his back pocket and speared himself a cube. The four hours of sleep he did catch gave him an added clarity when he cruised back down to the medical wing. All of the Avengers were there. Thor sat on the floor, his broken knee cap, nearly healed, and propped up on the chair Natasha temporarily abandoned. She'd just gone upstairs for something dinner related. Steve slept in a pile on the floor, a bag of ice clutched against the three broken ribs that hadn't quite set yet.

If they decided to meet like this every time one of them ended up in the infirmary, Tony was going to need to expand the rooms. Chewing down another piece of Jello, Tony thought a little more about whether he might like to keep Clint in the surgical suite, or if he'd like to keep his lower body intact for the remainder of his days.

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2 chapters left!

Please review! :)


	9. Chapter 9

Thank you to:::

iskaen, finabin, Lost it Never Had it, Ms. Hawkeye, Hamato Alexa, Niom Lamboise, discordchick, BecauseImBatman108, Qweb, comicsans-spideydehaanfan, horsequeen1379, natashgriz, m klindt, NorthernMage

Guest (best fanfic ever?! Aw, thank you!)

chris.(Thank you! I hope you love the coming banter just as much!)

TheNaggingCube (Natasha's little realization was totally a last minute thing right before i posted the chapter. I think it turned out pretty good!:)

Batghost (eh, who wants to sleep in their own room when they can potentially watch Clint shoot Tony?LOL)

* * *

**Friends Check for Bullet Wounds**

Chapter 9

Third Day Post-Op 7:43am

Clint groaned as he stretched his arm over his head and the muscles along the side of him tugged. It felt as good as a cat extending his back after a long nap by an open window. That reminded him, he was warm. He rolled to the side, trying to escape the heat from his thicker winter blanket but reached the edge of something and nearly fell right to the floor. Two hands laid hold of his arm and leg, keeping him steady.

"Whoa, my friend! Do not attempt to depart from the couch so swiftly." Thor said.

Clint opened his eyes to see the thunderer hovering over him. Thor helped replace his friend on the cushions and dropped back until he was sitting on the floor by Barton's face. He was simply dressed in a shirt, borrowed from Steve most likely, and loose sweat pants. A black brace decorated his knee though most of the straps were looser than they should be. Either he didn't know how to use it properly, or he didn't need it as much as whatever doctor he'd seen insisted. Either possibility were likely in the Asgardian's case. His right eye had a deeper rim of yellow/green than the left from a bruise that hadn't quite healed yet.

"Geez, Thor, who whipped you?" Clint asked.

"A mutual enemy of ours, though I do wish I had know of his presence before he felled you." Thor replied.

_Ah, Balfore,_ Clint thought. His memories were hard to access, as if a steel vault locked them into solitary confinement and only occasionally cracked the door for him to gander in. Now that he prodded that bolted gateway, he began to recall the feeling of what he reclined on.

"Couch?" Clint asked, trying to focus his unwilling eyes on the world around him. He saw the windows first. The whole wall of them with their internal shades tinted to keep the sunrise from completely blinding him. Still the light filtered in, warming his face under its fresh new rays. Someone had grabbed the fleece blanket out of his room and tucked him in as tight as a sausage. So that's where being hot came from. Clint pulled the blanket down a little and kicked one of his legs out from under it.

Thor nodded. He itched the brace over his knee and occasionally Clint caught him scowling at it. "You awoke with a peace about you on this occasion, friend archer. Indeed you even appeared to enter your sleep more restfully after being returned here. We were all quite glad for it. You had warned us over the consequences should we not adhere to your wish of returning to your quarters. It may have taken all of my might to lift your monitors here, but the challenge was happily met. We feast your recovery soon." Thor went on, smiling through his glad tidings.

"Feast what?" Clint pushed himself up just enough to see over the back of the couch. His entire kitchen had been invaded by the Avengers team. Tony was sitting on his counter. Pepper was cooking bacon. Steve stacked flapjacks onto an array of plates and Natasha warmed the maple syrup in the microwave. Bruce had just stolen himself a spoonful of eggs and he turned around to see Clint staring at him.

"Hey look who returned to the land of the living!" Bruce grinned striding over. He hiked a thumb backward into the kitchen. "Now, don't be mad. We didn't touch anything."

"Like Hell you didn't!" Clint yelled. Thor placed a hand on his shoulder, but Clint pulled away from him. He struggled to get himself into a seated position and eventually Thor gave up watching the herculean trial take place. The Asgardian stood, hooked himself under the struggling Barton's armpits and hoisted him up and back against the arm rest. Thor reclaimed his spot on the floor and said nothing more about it.

Bruce held up his hand, plate, and fork. "Scout's honor! All we did was plug in the stove and the microwave, which we will unplug. We all thought we'd let you wake up somewhere more familiar like you wanted."

Clint's eyes narrowed first at Thor for daring to touch him without being asked, then at every other Avenger. "Are you trying to convince me that Tony Stark showed up in my apartment, that he technically owns, and he didn't buy me a bed, or lay down flooring, or paint my walls?"

"Clint, no one messed with your feng shui." Natasha removed the maple syrup from the microwave and dropped it on the counter. She grabbed a paper bag from beside Pepper and came over with it. She held up the bag just in his arm's reach. "Two double cheeseburgers, no pickles, no mayo, extra cheese."

Clint shot his hand out to take them, but a sharp pain went right through him. He froze in place, the depths of his pain clearly evident on his face. Bruce came forward a little faster and took Clint's hand. He carefully directed it back along Clint's side. He ducked down behind the back of the couch and Clint watched his shoulders roll together as he worked on something there. A few seconds later, the machine he adjusted resounded a few familiar b_eeps_.

"I changed the morphine drip." Bruce said, standing up to see him. "I'm sorry, Clint. I was trying to wean you down a bit. You shouldn't move around too fast though. It's only been a couple days."

Clint turned to him. "That's not possible. I was just here last night!"

"Actually, it's been three days. You've been out of it from the meds. Last night you got a little sick too. We've been toying around with a few things to try and keep you comfortable. You gave us a bit of a scare but the docs thought it was all right to bring you back here. We knew you'd be happier too."

The archer tried to rub his face. There was still a catheter in the side of his left hand. Needle condom. When did he say that? Was it last night? Everything ran together. Night and day, faces, procedures, fruit Jello . . . he could see the glimpses of those memories like watching a movie screen through a fog. It was morning, that much he could see. Exactly which morning was impossible to tell without trusting them. "It's really been three days?"

Even Thor nodded. Natasha came over and perched on the end of Clint's cedar chest with his burgers in hand. She had fresh stitches on the right side her face, rimmed in a purple bruise and unhappy red edges. The analytic half of his mind began assessing the weapon that could have done it. Hammer, round end of a baseball bat, either of those were possibilities. That meant the assailant got close to her. That didn't happen often, and almost never on purpose. So she must have let them close. Lured them in. Allowed them to fancy an upper hand where none existed. Those were things he _could_ expect from her.

"You could have just borrowed my bow and sniped the guy. You didn't have to let him get that close, you know." Clint said privately to her.

Natasha gave him a sly grin, the one that meant he'd deduced correctly. "I hate how you do that."

"Only because I'm right. He was dangerous, Tash, I told you that."

Thor glanced up to Bruce, checking to see whether he was the only one not party to the conversation or if the doctor was similarly out in the woods. Banner shrugged his answer. This was spy talk and they were not invited to it. Luckily enough, the two didn't begin speaking in Russian.

"And I always listen to the things you tell me."

"Mostly, yes because you know me, and I know you, and you trust me. Doing stupid stuff is my shtick. You get reckless and I'm out of a job."

She held up the paper bag again. "All you're doing is convincing me not to give these to you. They said we could try some solid food, but I'm inclined to throw these crappy food joint burgers out instead."

"You love my favorite, crappy food joint." Clint complained, crestfallen. She unwrapped his first burger and said nothing to his statement. She handed it over. He held it against his chest for a moment, wondering whether or not it was a good idea to eat it. "Has it really been three days?"

"Yes, Clint, it has. You didn't punch anyone, though. You actually settled down for a little bit too."

"That _is_ weird." Clint decided to take a bite and rolled the bread around in his mouth while he thought. He remembered the handcuffs chaining him to the bed. A face close to his that might have been Banner's. Soft words spoken in his ear when it seemed he wouldn't ever breathe again. "_We've got you, Clint. You're ours. Nothing's taking you away from this team. You're stuck with us and we're stuck with you. Don't you dare give up."_

Clint looked at Bruce, imagining the moment the few days before when the doctor he hardly knew did everything in his power to keep Clint calm. It didn't matter what kind of man he was before, what Clint did in his past on the Heli-Carrier, or the fact that he didn't mingle well with others. Bruce, Tony, Steve, Thor, the whole team stood there with him. They refused to leave at his lowest moment and chose to avenge him the way only the Avengers could. He knew he was part of a team before, but had he let the team become part of him?

Banner picked up on the private thought much the same way Natasha might. He squeezed Clint's shoulder reassuringly, punctuating that earlier promise, and he slid to the floor beside Thor. He propped his dish between his knees and started to carve into his pancakes.

While Clint chewed on his food, and the issue in front of him, the others converged on the living room. Pepper glided over to plant a kiss on his cheek. Natasha shot him a playful, schoolgirl look at the expression on Clint's face. Tony's girl then grabbed a table cloth she'd brought down from the common room and laid it out on the floor to prevent any potential stains on Clint's white carpet. Bruce lifted his feet and stretched them out on the newly available space, despite Pepper smacking them away from her ham hash casserole. Steve helped arrange their picnic. He looked a little like Clint did with no shirt and bandages almost up to his neck. Leaning over was a battle of stiffness, grimacing, and eventually he just fell onto his backside. Clint wanted to laugh at the face Steve made.

"Looking at the three of you mugs, I should be happy all he did was throw me through a wall and stab me." Clint snickered a little to himself. His body was oddly warm as he felt the level on his drug infusion change. Out of curiosity he edged up along the couch and glanced down at the floor. Thor wasn't kidding when he talked about dragging the medical equipment into his room. Somehow Bruce had arranged all of his monitors along the back of the couch.

"He threw you through a wall?!" Bruce exclaimed.

Clint straightened. All of them were staring at him with mixtures of horror and shock. "Oh, yeah. I guess I forgot that part. I didn't go through the cement one, I just bounced off it. The restaurant had thinner walls, I guess. Went right through that one."

Pepper's fork hovered between her chin and her plate. "Two walls?"

"I didn't go through the first one."

His appetite waning, Bruce set his plate down beside his leg and rubbed his eyes. Clint was proving to be just as frustrating conscious as he was semi-conscious. "Clint, when I asked you how you were it would have been nice to know about your potential concussion. Especially when you were so out of it."

"I told you I got knocked out." Clint defended.

"By the guy's fist! Walls never came up!" Bruce stopped, found his center, and began again a little calmer. "Let's discuss this all again. You and an Asgardian faced off in an alley and he threw you . . . at this point I should stop and ask how far."

Clint took another bite of his cheeseburger. "I don't know, ten feet? Fifteen? I wasn't counting. I was flying through the air and trying not to die."

Tony joined the circle at last. He shoved Clint's feet aside so he could sit on the end of the couch next to him, despite having another four cushions worth of free space to choose from. Clint's attention rapidly switched from Banner's inquisition to his latest target.

"Excuse me, who invited you to sit right there?!" He growled.

Wordlessly, Tony slipped two pieces of bacon Clint's way so he could add them to his burgers. Barton scowled at the offering as though they might be poisoned. Natasha shot him a hazardous look. She'd warned him about this. The play nice and stop sticking out, thing that he did. Obviously no one was planing to leave anytime soon after they'd made themselves comfortable on his floor. Fine. Fit in. That was something he could do and he'd prove it. He snatched the bacon slices, he was going to ask for some anyway, and flattened them between his patties and bun. Not bothering to acknowledge Stark's offering beyond that, he returned to his conversation with Bruce.

"The concrete wall came first. I hit that, got up, and put an arrow in his knee. He threw a dumpster into the SHIELD agents. I almost got away then I went flying into the Shabu Shabu. The Sous chef, who, by the way, was there at two something in the morning, sees me and loses it. The big guy followed me in and off the chef ran. If that field officer wasn't so Hell-bent of dragging Balfore in, I would have resolved the situation before he broke the other agent's back."

Pepper had resumed eating and found herself stopping again. "Broken back?" she asked.

"I told them to clear out. I told them I wanted back up." Clint kicked Tony's leg with his foot. "I even told them to get your shiny brass into the action. Twice. You know what I got for my trouble? He shoved a knife in my back, slammed that beef-slab fist of his into the back of my head, then he threw a cabinet on top of me. When I came to, shocked that I was even still breathing, there was Agent Daniels standing outside with some other guy I didn't know drinking Starbucks. They thought I was dead, and they were out there drinking coffee?" Clint shook his head in disgust. Across from him Natasha was progressively tensing until at the end of his tale she shot straight out of her seat, excused herself, and stalked away, muttering Russian curses.

"That's seriously what happened?" Steve asked.

Clint picked up his catheterized hand to indicated the IV drip of tongue-loosing pain medication. "I'm being surprisingly talkative, Cap. Yeah, that's what happened. Why?"

"We didn't know you asked for back-up. The field officer said you wanted to handle it yourself, prove yourself. I didn't know any different." He explained.

Clint looked around behind him for Natasha. She'd disappeared down the hall. "Hey, Cap, I'm laid up apparently. So unless you want to be the friend that helps Tasha hide the bodies she's off to go collect, I think you better lay off the next course and go get her."

Steve dropped his food, whispered his own little words, and took off calling Natasha's name.

"Should just let her go." Tony remarked, scooping a fork full of Belgian waffle between his lips. "I'll help with the bodies."

* * *

Awe, only 1 chapter left! It's been such a fun ride! I hope you've liked it too.

I have my Dermatology Final tomorrow, Toxicology Final Thursday, Food Animal Internal Medicine Final on Monday, Equine Internal Medicine Final on Wednesday, and lastly my Small Animal Internal Medicine Final on Friday. It's the end of my 3rd year in vet school... what a ride!

Please review! I'd love the inspiration to keep me focused on studying:)


	10. Chapter 10

Thank you to:::

SiriusBlackFan2, Shadowcat85, MO-5431, Bellanca, natashgriz, icanhearthedrums, Batghost, Niom Lamboise, StumpyTPDimples, Alethea 13, Qweb, iskaen,

BecauseImBatman108, a fanfictioner, NorthernMage, Ms. Hawkeye, discordchick, IWriteSinsOrTragedies, Pinkypop22, ozhawk, JRBarton, shadowhuntingdauntlessdemigod, guest

Anise Nadiah (Thank you for coming back!)

TheNaggingCube (Thank you for all the support!)

Sandylee007 (LOL! I saw the review, too funny! Thank you!)

AaronCross (His cheeseburger obsession is definitely my own. In Grenada, a good cheeseburger is nearly impossible to find. the first thing I ate off the plane? Cheeseburger in 'Merica)

HawkeyeIsTheBest (Thank you so much for all the wonderful compliments! They helped me through this term for sure!)

DatNatCatThoe (AWE! Thank you!)

Daughter of the North (This is such a huge compliment, Thank you very much! I'm not sure if i will write more in this set-up. But who knows! I tend to connect things without ever thinking about it)

horsequeen1379 (hmmmmmm maybe? :)

* * *

**Friends Check for Bullet Wounds**

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

_Get out from that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans (bum, bum bum, bum, bum bum)**  
**Get out from that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans (bum, bum bum, bum, bum bum)**  
**Well, roll my breakfast 'cause I'm a hungry man (bum, bum bum, bum, bum bum)**  
**I said Shake, rattle and roll**  
**I said Shake, rattle and roll…._

Pepper laughed in delight, throwing her head back as she swayed her hips left, then right, then left and spun in place, leading the good Captain on his first dance lesson over the white drop cloths in the living room of Clint's apartment. Steve did his best to keep up, despite the guffaw from a paint-covered Thor reclining on the floor. Apparently the thunderer had seen better dancing by a pair of fish he once hooked on a line. In the kitchen, Bruce thumped out the beat along with Clint's new record player. The couch had been pushed back to give them room to work and Tony took a break from laying the new hardwood kitchen flooring to watch. He sipped from the neck of his beer bottle and critiqued Steve's technique. Sitting beside him with his own non-alcoholic version was Clint.

"Cap, I swear, if you don't start leading her I'm going to laugh at you and silently judge you for all time. I will consider you less of a man," Tony said.

"Hey, I'm trying my best! Gimme a break, it's my first time," Steve said. He was all left feet and zero rhythm. A hilarious combination for Captain America. He tended to have a natural groove that came from being the America's first super soldier. Watching him try to dance was like seeing a noodle, balloon man in front of a car dealership.

"Come on, this is painful even for me," Natasha complained. She sent a glance Thor's way. "Get in there Mr. Son-of-Asgard and show the Cap how to cut a rug."

Thor sprung to his feet at the opportunity offered. "Well, I do not believe you actually imply for me to bisect our good friend's carpeting, but Asgardian dancing is something with which I am keenly familiar."

Tony sat up and turned so he could have a better view of the show to come. "Hey, Cap, try to put something on that isn't from the pre-1985s. Clint's taste in good music might as well be yours."

Clint punched him in the shoulder. "Hey, I don't complain about Ozzy going full blast one floor down."

"You love my music and just don't care to admit it."

"I really feel, from the depths of my heart, that you are insane."

Thor and Pepper ignored their conversation and began to cut it up Asgardian style. Steve found a copy of Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" and the music started all over again. Apparently, they discovered Asgardian's did a great deal of hand clapping, leg-slapping, and carrying of women in their dances which became a fantastic show for his friends. Pepper lasted a few minutes into the first song and collapsed onto the drop cloth laughing hysterically. Thor extended his hand to Natasha who politely declined.

"You complain about Ozzy Osborne and you have Whitney Houston?" Tony asked, smiling over his shoulder at Clint.

"I found her in _your_ Glass Castle," Clint replied.

Bruce, on his second beer and feeling no effects from it, scooted into the living room and fell into the Asgardian groove right beside Thor. The others watched the two of them thump right around the front room together in a moment of utter joviality. While it wasn't the electric slide, or even the Cotton Eyed Joe, it was still two people in a line performing impossible looking feats.

_This is different,_ Clint considered to himself. The last time he'd been invited to a team function, and actually attended, it was Maria Hill's SHIELD Christmas party three years ago. Someone had the bright idea of challenging him to target shooting the Christmas balls off a tree. He'd been banned from such events for the foreseeable future. He'd led teams. Sometimes been part of them but for the most part SHIELD understood that Clint worked the best when he worked alone. Too many minds tended to cloud his judgement and as a certifiable pain-in-the-butt no C/Os wanted to work with him. Fury was always playing clean up to his arguments with higher ups. Often times, the SHIELD director was at the head of those self same verbal lashings. Hawkeye, regardless of his faults, got results. Left to his own devices, managed with a structural, soldier's way, he was a lethal weapon in SHIELD's arsenal. Friend, confidant, Family Night man he was not.

The Avengers offered to help him fix up the place if he wanted. Laying hardwood, painted walls, fixing tile, assembling a bed, and re-doing plumbing might take him another six months or a year to complete on his own, especially given his constantly shifting mission schedule. Natasha pointed out the logic of letting people in and Clint conceded. After all, he'd been stabbed in the chest last week. What's the worst that could happen?

Tony's hand bumped the back of Clint's, drawing him out of his introspection. He whispered, "You good? If we're taking up too much of your space, we can pack it in for the night."

Clint didn't realize he'd been thinking for so long. Another song had started and Bruce taught Thor the chicken dance. "No, it's fine. This is fine. I'm actually enjoying this a bit. A lot, I meant a lot. I just don't normally do this kinda thing."

Tony nodded at that. He didn't exactly do this all the time either. In fact, it didn't start until the Avengers moved in. He had plenty of parties in the past, but this wasn't like the others. He was surrounding by people he actually knew, enjoyed himself, and all it took was four boxes of pizza, a few cases of beer, and Clint's apartment makeover. "I don't do this thing either."

"It's nice. You were right too. That wall does look better white. Makes the place bigger feeling."

Tony looked at the wall on the right of the windows. While the rest remained the dark eggplant, this one Thor had worked to repaint a softer white. "Every room needs a good anchor. The windows are good for that too, but the whole place feels like a cave if it's all one color. I never thought that yellow would go with purple, but it actually does." He indicated the back plash for the kitchen they spent the afternoon letting Bruce install. There was a fine stone tile, smooth as river rocks, with a summer yellow painted directly above it. The cabinets were deconstructed, re-installed, and turned from wood to a country white. They kept the appliances, even adding a few others, like a blender. Clint decided he couldn't live without one.

"I never thought I'd like yellow."

Tony leaned up, grabbed his plate of pizza off the counter and settled back down. He handed one of his slices to Clint. They ate in silence while Bruce taught Steve and Thor how to do Thriller. Clint tried to laugh at Thor's utter confusion, but swiftly stopped. He held his hand against his side and winced. Tony set his food down and touched the archer's shoulder.

"Doing too much, I think," Clint whispered to him.

"Ok, well your time card's punched. We'll install the next of the back splash later. I think you just earned a time out." Tony replied, equally low. He could see Clint considering to fight him on it. Barton had gotten in trouble once already for going overboard and spent his Monday sleeping off some torn stitches. He sighed and conceded instead.

Tony chewed his dinner and enjoyed the view from the living room. Something still ate at him, though. A conversation that went unsaid between them "I know why you went alone, and why there are some missions you're always going to do alone. I have those too. Just remember you do have a team here, Clint. We're friends. If you ever come back again and you're not sure about something, like whether or not there's a ten inch steak knife hanging out of your chest, then just come ask me."

"Friends check friends for bullet wounds, is that it?" Clint asked with a grin.

"And knife wounds, and repulsor blasts, or crush injuries, or accidental impalements. You know, why limit this wonderful thing we may develop?"

"All right, fine," Clint said, genuinely appreciative for his concern. He took his hand away from the bandage over his side. "Let's finish the floor, I'll let Thor paint the rest of the accent wall, and we'll call it a night."

Tony nodded. "Good plan. Rest up, though, because I'm sure Pepper's going to make you go out there and do the electric slide or something."

Clint snickered. "Nah, that's all right. I'll play the music, not groove to it."

Tony arched an eyebrow. This was another discovery. "What do you play?"

"Piano, guitar. Did drums for a while 'cause I never miss a beat." As the words left his mouth, Clint pointed his fingers in a _did-you-get-the-joke_ gesture.

"Oh… Oh, that's bad. That was just terrible!" Tony laughed, nearly inspiring the same in Barton if he didn't respect his pain levels more than his sense of humor.

Natasha draped herself on the arm of Clint's couch, her drink hanging toward the floor as she stared at the pair. "Look at you two getting to know each other. Barton, I'm shocked. You haven't bitten anyone."

"Tony's not my flavor" Clint replied, the endless wit rearing its ugly head.

"He doesn't like Italian," Tony explained.

"My mother was Italian," Clint corrected.

"Actually we were talking about Clint's prowess with piano keys and his lack of groove on the dance floor," Tony reclaimed his slice of pizza and chewed threw half of it.

"Clint can dance. He's better at playing though," Natasha said, not realizing that the music had come to a close and everyone else happened to hear her compliment. She didn't hand them out often.

In a hoard of overwhelming curiosity, they approached to inquire about the conversation. Tony caught them up, and their evening of rehabilitating Clint's room dropped into cajoling the archer into playing them a tune. Bruce was the first to point out the old, six-string guitar that appeared in Clint's bedroom since the last time they'd been by. After a few more swigs from his, regrettably, non-alcoholic drink, Clint finally conceded to play them something. They mst be making him soft. There wasn't much the planet itself could do to force him into something he initially refused. Not Pepper's puppy-dog eyes, Tony's flat out orders, Steve's gentle prodding, Bruce's assurance, Thor's clapping, or even Natasha's knowing, private look. But something that formed from those people as a group did get him onto his feet, into the next room, where he emerged with the guitar. Fury would never let him hear the end of this if he found out.

He might not have been used to the strange sort of family Tony tried to draw him into, or the invasions of his privacy. He might detest allowing others in and certainly breaking out of the SHIELD mindset was a difficult transition for any agent. But with the old six-string on the floor and his fingers dancing along the cords, Clint felt a strange sense of something he hadn't experienced for a long time. It was entirely possible he might start referring to this place as "home".

Natasha stuck up for him when it counted most, and despite Steve's attempts to stop her. Agent Daniel's hadn't been heard from in nearly a week. He left a typed note about visiting the brother he didn't have in San Juan. Coincidentally, he never arrived. Twelve other field agents met similar "reassigned" fates at the hand of the Black Widow. Fury turned his blind eye to it. After all, he liked Barton too. And the case was a royal... well, you get the idea.

It was in that moment when Barton transitioned from distant loner to potentially all-in Avenger, that Barton's wall of windows exploded inward with an otherworldly force. There were screams as men and women dove out of the way and buried their faces from potential shards. But when the dust settled, Natasha knew that there was someone on Clint's most wanted list she'd missed. The form of a massive man flew into the room and stood towering over the team. In his paw-like hands he held four knives a piece and they were more than prepared to begin slicing into his prey. This was one dandy of a surprise they had never expected!

"THOR ODINSON!" Balfore the Surmounter shouted in his Asgardian way. "I CHALLENGE YOUR RIGHT TO ASGARD'S THRONE!"

Clint smiled a little. So maybe he was getting his re-match after all. There was no rest for the wicked and, recovering injury or not, he was planning to be plenty bad tonight.

* * *

Sorry for the long time before updating. Finals week has come and gone, and you are now reading the words of a 4th year student! HOOT! Thank all of you for the overwhelming support. I hope you move on to my other works and enjoy those just as much as this. I do have other ideas in the mix incorporating the new AOU work, so expect those at some point also!

-Again, Thank you all.

Please review!


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